Bring Me Back A Dog
by MrTails
Summary: John Watson: Doctor, Solider, Golden Retriever just wants to be treated like everyone else. Instead, he's in the pound facing his ultimate doom. Then he meets Sherlock Holmes. AU. Note: Now with Jawn's description.
1. Study in Gold

Bring Me Back A Dog

"_God__give__a__little__love__; __bring__me__back__a__dog__in__the__next__life__. __Want__to__be__a__dog__in__the__next__life__." - __IAMX_

Chapter One: A Study In Gold

This was great. In fact, it was better than great, it was fucking fantastic.

John hated his cage. It was rectangular in shape, just tall enough for him to stand and just wide enough so he wouldn't scrape his elbows on the cement sides when he ate. It gave him just barely enough room to make a small circle. Of course, he was relatively shorter than the others and he did not envy them constantly brushing their heads on the tops of the cramped cages. The floor was padded, but he could still feel the unforgiving sidewalk under the thin support. John would have preferred prison over this. John would have preferred anything over this.

After spending years in the military, doing everything he was told and helping countless people including some very highly decorated generals, he got to sit in a cage: a small cage. Worse yet, he got to sit in a cage and wait to be adopted like some kind of animal; a pet. He supposed that was all he was now, though, an animal.

Years before John Hamish Watson was born, scientists all over the world were working on what was thought to be the biggest medical break through in history; a cure for cancer. To their credit, they were very successful. All success came with some consequences, unfortunately for John's generation and many, many generations to come. No one really knew the full story, it was blacked out and drowned in so many lies and misleads that it was impossible to tell what was true anymore. The current word was that the cure worked but in the process, it altered the very DNA of the patient it was injected with. Regardless of the reason, the conclusion was clear; humans injected with the cure were permanently changed.

That wouldn't have been a problem at all, considering in most cases, the changes were small and sometimes even unnoticeable. Sometimes they'd grow a strange color of hair, or fur, or perhaps their eyes were a little different or they grew fangs. Most of the time, they were animal attributes. The tiny things could have easily been overlooked by most of the population given enough time. It was a _cure_, after all. A cure that saved thousands of people in only the first month. No one could possibly throw that away in the face of something so insignificant.

Then the greed washed over the achievement the same way it did over everything else. It wasn't a cure anymore, but instead, they made it into a weapon. The breakthrough was far more than just saving something. It was creating a new species far more fitting for dangerous tasks than humans. They could make people less human, more weapon, more hardy, and less expensive. Though they would argue that it was better for the population, the government began to change the cure with little regard of the people they infected it with. Sometimes John wondered if the world would be better without a cure.

John Watson had been born with a very specific cancer. He had never believed that completely. It had been blacked from his record and every record like all the rest of the people infected with 'the cure'. If he had ever had any disease, it was eradicated from his being. In exchange for a cure, which for all he knew, he never actually needed, his parents had to promise his life away to the military. As a whole, it had never been that bad of a deal.

For his entire childhood, he was treated different from his healthy sister. He was special and he often caught his parents sobbing over him. Sometimes his mother would just hold him and cry and pet his golden ears. John hadn't understood in the beginning. He hadn't realized there was anything wrong with him. He was treated different by his fellow students, as well. Fortunately, there was a handful of others like him that made school life a little more bearable. In the early years, he was treated different only because of his looks. Some of them would stare and some of them would try to pet him. Often times, John would let them.

Later on, he was treated with much less kindness. Instead of being the 'adorable puppy boy' he turned into the 'I don't want you anywhere near my child'. He kept to his own kind to prevent any unnecessary conflict and only interacted with those he knew wouldn't react badly to him. He managed to secure a spot on the rugby team for a little while, until they decided that he was 'cheating' for being able to run a little faster and jump a little higher than the others. It probably didn't help that he'd had an unnatural obsession with chasing his tail. He'd just discovered he couldn't catch it! Of course he spent every moment trying to. Fortunately, John knew better than to fight for something so pointless. When the conflict came up, he swiftly tucked his tail between his legs and hurried away from the spot.

In the last of his years before he turned eighteen and his life was yanked away, he was treated differently because by then, everyone knew he was the reason they didn't get drafted. Healthy humans were typically not allowed anywhere near the military. There were a few units made entirely of healthy humans, but it was a disastrous idea to stick them with the infected. The stressful environment caused the infected to be unstable and dangerous. Some of the healthy humans appreciated it, and others despised him for it. In general, though, they put even more distance from him. After all, John was an unruly, untrained dog that could possibly flip at any moment and rip their throats out with the canine teeth slightly too big for his mouth. He thought that was a little melodramatic, but he was glad they kept themselves away.

In a way, John was glad he was summoned away on his eighteenth birthday. It meant he could be with people like him and things could be at least a little bit normal. Not that there was anything normal with being swatted with a newspaper on a daily basis or sharing a cabin with a tiger, two cats, a sheep, and an assortment of other infected human hybrids.

His first week was spent taking tests. After his health and mental state were approved, he was tested for occupation. John, unsurprisingly, tested to become a doctor and therefore, trained as a doctor. Despite the circumstance, he really did love it. He loved his nose and he loved being able to smell everything. He thought the training was a little unconventional, but it worked. When the actual fighting came along, John volunteered to go.

In the end, he supposed that had been a terrible, terrible idea. The likelihood that he would have been sent out anyways was incredibly high, but he still wasn't entirely sure why he thought it would be a good idea to assure him a spot on the front line. Perhaps he was a little more Golden Retriever than he wanted to admit to. Even though he was a doctor, he still managed to get himself into a heap of trouble. Unfortunately, that 'heap of trouble' turned out to be more of a bullet to the shoulder. Wounded and stretched a little too thin, he was relieved of duty.

John didn't find out until after he was shot that being sent home was not a good thing. He was thrown into this cell and here he was. He was wounded and up for adoption. John hadn't even realized that there was a field open for this kind of thing. As far as he knew, the other people here were people like him only they were the ones that refused to serve. He knew of only one other that had been shipped back wounded and he- he disappeared a few days after John got here. He didn't want to think about it.

They were still people! John couldn't believe that this was even legal, and it was very legal. He didn't want to be put to sleep, the thought still sent shivers down his spine, but this wasn't much better than that. They were expecting him to be adopted and he already knew that was highly unlikely. He was older than everyone else here and he was hurt. He wasn't a pet under any light and he had to admit to himself, people would only see him as a pet from now on.

According to his 'doctor', which John would argue was counterproductive, he was also suffering from post traumatic stress disorder and a psychosomatic limp. John wasn't sure how he knew that since he couldn't bloody move! Regardless, he wasn't going to be adopted any time soon. He was too broken to do any manual labor and he wasn't cute. Some of the people here at least stood a chance. Some of them were worse off than him, more animal than man, and some of them were better off with only the smallest changes to their colors and maybe some teeth and nails. He was a full grown man, though, with a man's face and manly wounds. The kinds of people that adopted them were little rich families and no rich family was looking to adopt someone like him. He couldn't even be a body guard (dog) due to his shoulder injury. At this rate, he really would be put down. That was better than being a burden on his family.

John knew he couldn't expect to get a job like this, either. He could barely be out in public by himself without the police on his tail and being given nasty looks from the healthy people. They would all assume he had refused to serve like he was told to. They wouldn't dare ask him, of course. He was an unruly beast that would surely bite them in the face and give them rabies. He wondered if the healthy people even knew that they were immune to rabies, and several other diseases. No. Probably not. Not that it mattered whatsoever. At the end of the day, he was still an infected creature in a tiny cage.

A very sad infected creature in a tiny cage.

"This is disgusting." The entire room went into hushed silence as the doors opened and people entered. Every so often, healthy people would come through, like any normal pound, and they all knew that no one wanted to adopt a loud, noisy pet. Apparently, despite being 'unruly' creatures, they were still expected to be intelligent enough to keep their yaps shut. John would be more than happy to give them a well deserved nip given the chance. He wasn't stupid, though, and if he wanted to leave here alive, he knew to keep his teeth in his mouth.

"Why on earth would she have come here?" John could just barely see the little group of three, two being led, one leading through the lines of cages. He pulled himself to the mesh fence of his cage, leaning against it halfheartedly to get some sort of attention from the strangers. He had to at least try to get out of here. Giving up definitely wasn't going to get him out of here.

"She was an activist, Sherlock. She probably came down here to free them." They must have been talking about the young woman that came by a couple days ago. John remembered her because she was very insistent on trying to adopt them all without any money. He was glad for her cause, but he knew she was useless to him. If she really wanted to help, she would be stopping things like him from happening before he had a chance to get to the pound. That would never happen. It was still a cure and no one would respond well to having that taken away.

"Sherlock," John repeated almost sadly as the pair of men walked past his cage. It was best not to make a sound, but they obviously wouldn't pay him any attention if he didn't. Just because he was wounded didn't mean he forgot all of his training. He didn't forget any of his training, in actuality. It was too bad they didn't live in actuality. One of the men was thin and tall and quite obviously well taken care of. The other was older and worn looking. Pale eyes glanced down to him at once and John stared back with exhausted eyes.

"What's wrong with this one?" The older man questioned curiously. John had to wonder how bad he looked. He hadn't been anywhere near a mirror in over a decade. They were probably a couple but neither of them smelled too well off. Even so, couples were never looking for older pets to take home. He didn't stand a chance. The woman, one John was getting use to being around, sighed softly. She was nice enough and even treated them like people most the time. John sniffed at the strangers through the diamond wiring and shifted a little closer as the older one leaned down to where the retriever sat.

"I'm afraid he's given up," she explained glumly. "He's too injured to work properly and we can't find him a home." With John's luck at receiving attention, the others in the cages around him began to call, whine, and whimper out to the man, yelping Sherlock's name over and over again as if it would bring the man to their cages next. Anything was worth a try.

"Hey!" The woman worker called swiftly. "Quiet! Naughty!" She scolded loudly and the noise quieted down a little, but didn't stop completely. It would be impossible to try and get them to stop now.

"Do they always do that?" The taller male questioned. His friend placed a hand on the fence and John weakly met it with his own. Fortunately, his hand was very human. He didn't even have claws and that earned him some sort of sympathy factor. People often felt bad for him but that didn't mean they were going to take him home. John really hoped it did this time, just like all the other times.

"They're in cages, Mr. Holmes. They'll do anything to leave."

"Then let them out." Sherlock Holmes stated pointedly and sharply as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. John liked the way he thought. It _was_ that easy.

"I wish it were that easy," she murmured back softly.

"See the little latch there? You unlock it and the door opens and they walk out," he explained patiently and just a little bit teasingly. John could almost smile, but he didn't think it reached his face.

"I am aware how the lock works." The worker scowled and an angry line wrinkled above her nose. "I can't just let them go. That's illegal," she assured him firmly from between her clenched teeth.

"Nicotine patches will make you sick," John murmured softly. The man kneeling at his cage gave him a strange look and retracted his hand from the fencing. He pulled his sleeve down a little, straightening out the little wrinkles and needlessly covering his patch a little more.

"I think I'll be okay," he assured him. John adverted his eyes away from him, however, and instead stared at his partner.

"Not you. Him," the Golden Retriever corrected himself. The taller man gave him a bewildered look. Sherlock didn't step any closer to him or his cage, but his attention was clearly on the dog completely. "You're wearing three of them."

"How do you know that?"

"I used to be a medic. I'm trained to smell disease," John responded with the short, sweet answer. The second man stood again, leaving John desperate for some more much needed attention, but he refrained from whining. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously and John adjusted himself a little almost as if to primp. He watched the man search through his pocket and after a moment he pulled out a piece of pink fabric.

"Where did you get that?" Sherlock's partner demanded irritably.

"Didn't I tell you? I found her suitcase." He shrugged innocently and turned his attention back to testing the infected man. He crouched so he was eye level with the lax creature and held out the piece of fabric between the holes for John. Naturally, John sniffed at it. Immediately, he knew it smelled strange. He could smell perfume, lilac, hotel soap, he wasn't familiar enough with the current hotels to tell which, and the distinct smell of salt water from some larger body of water.

"What can you tell me about this?" Sherlock questioned with a pointedly blank tone.

"It belonged to a woman. She was healthy, but this smells faintly of several distinct men. It's been washed a lot." John sat up a little in his cage and took the cloth in his own hands, sniffing at it wholeheartedly now. He'd forgotten how much he loved to do this. "Not since the last one. Aspirin. He took a lot of it. Cologne, but not a lot. A man handled this indirectly." He couldn't help his interest. His golden tail betrayed him and it began to twitch happily behind him. "A man with an aneurysm."

"You can smell all of that?" The older man gaped. He looked impressed and John knew the man had never been around a creature like him before. He was trained specifically for things like this. This was a practice run for him.

"I can smell that your wife is sleeping with a pool cleaner." John answered rather casually. The man gave him a sharp stare and Sherlock smirked.

"I'll take him."

"What?" the dog responded stupidly.

"I'm taking you home," Sherlock confirmed. John's tail went absolutely crazy with relief, flinging against the side of the walls and the padded floor with small little 'thump' noises. He forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that laced through his knee as he did. this had better not be some sort of joke. That would just be cruel.

"Sherlock," his partner said with disapproval. "You do realize you actually have to take care of this thing, right?" So now he was a 'thing' again.

"He's a full grown man. I'm sure he can take care of himself," Sherlock scoffed dismissively.

"I can," John cut in swiftly, perking his tail up. "I can cook and clean and even bathe myself on occasion," he added in sarcastically. He was still a completely intelligent person capable of everything they were, plus some. Just because they were selling him as a pet didn't mean he actually was one.

"Mr. Holmes," the young woman said anxiously. If she ruined this for him, John was going to bite the bloody hell out of her the next time she dared to come anywhere near him. He was getting out of here! She should be keeping her mouth shut. "John needs a lot of attention. He's a special needs hybrid. He has PTSD."

"I limp a little, that's it," John insisted desperately, wrapping his fingers against the wire fence tightly. How could she honestly be trying to keep him here? Even if this man was terrible, he couldn't be anywhere near as bad as being in this tiny cage. Sherlock glared at her viciously.

"I don't believe I asked what he had," he assured her pompously.

"You really need to think about this, Sherlock," his friend said again, working with the lady to keep him locked up in here.

"Your wife's a whore!" John snapped at him rather suddenly and instantly regretted it. Well, there went his chance.

"John!" the woman snapped at him in horror. He was definitely getting the newspaper for that.

"Get him out of that cage and bring me the paperwork," Sherlock demanded. John was shocked. This was real. This was actually happening. He was getting adopted. He was far more excited about this than he should be. He was getting out of this damned cage! She glared at the taller man, but thankfully did as she was told. He unlocked the latch to the mesh door and pulled it open. John darted out of the little area as quickly as his limp would allow him and was instantly glad that he was allowed to properly stretch his legs.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I could just-!" His excitement got the best of him and on instinct alone, he licked the man's face with his thick, dog like tongue. Sherlock shoved him away at once and wiped the wet spot off with the back of his lather glove.

"Don't you ever do that again," he sniffed impatiently. Even that couldn't dull John's happiness. This was just too fantastic!

"Sorry. Of course. Sorry. I just- I thought I was going to die in here," the dog admitted needlessly, patting down the floppy ears in a way to primp himself for his savior. The man straightened his shoulders a little and took a quick pace out of the room. John followed as swiftly as he could, finding it a bit more difficult than he remembered it. They allowed the infected outside, of course. It would be inhumane not to, but John's leg made it nearly impossible for him to get any walking done in those times.

He was given a change of clothes to leave in, of which John more than happily changed into. Even though they were plain and a little itchy, it was better than having to wear the grey jumpsuit that had probably been worn by dozens of different people. No amount of washing could get the smell of death off of those clothes. He was also given the clothes he had arrived in back, his partially ruined uniform and tags. The male nurse led him into the back to fit him with a new pair of tags and an under the skin tracking device. John habitually growled at him when he stuck the needle in his skin. Though they meant he was officially owned again, John was happy for his new dog tags.

_John__Watson__. __Golden__Retriever__type__ 3. __Honorable__discharge__. 33-118-94. _One side read, shining with the seal of authenticity. _Sherlock__Holmes__. 221__b__Baker__St__London__. __xxx__-__xxxx__. _Was engraved on the backside. The second tag assured everyone he was up to date on his shots and alerting them that he was injured. It also would have told them if he was aggressive but since he wasn't, there was no need for it. As long as he had his tags, he couldn't be taken back here. The tracker was just in case he decided to run away, which he wasn't, but it wasn't a choice.

It felt fantastic just to be able to leave, to be outside and not in some elaborate cage meant to contain them. John dearly hoped that this meant he could get back to real food and actual human things. He hadn't read a paper in years and if he could just have one cup of tea again before he died, that would be fantastic.

The older man, who John overheard as 'Lestrade', didn't seemed pleased with this at all, but he was friendly none the less. He helped John limp out to the car as his new owner finished the last of the paperwork and paid for him. John expected to work off the cost later even if he was still very bitter about having to be paid for in the first place.

"You should be careful with Sherlock," Lestrade warned him carefully as he opened the door to the backseat. John climbed in, habitually sniffing out the area to make himself more comfortable with it. There'd been a lot of people in this car. He did suppose it was a police car.

"It's not like I'm going to bite him," John answered indignantly, turning his nose up to search the ceiling before turning back to the older looking man. He wasn't an animal and even an animal knew better than to bite the feeding hand.

"That's not what I mean. I could care less if you took a nip out of him. He deserves it half the time. I mean, he's different." It took Lestrade a whole of two seconds to realize what poor choice of words he'd chosen. John stared at him irritatedly.

"No. I mean, you should be careful. He's a sort of eccentric. What I'm trying to say is, you might be in a little over your head. He's known to experiment. He barely cares about the rights of actual people, sorry," he stabbed in an apology as if it would make discretion softer on the dog. "Let alone someone like you. So, he will treat you like everyone else, but he treats everyone like shit." Was this man really trying to convince him that it was a better choice to be in the _pound_ than with Sherlock?

"I've been in a cage for two months, Lestrade. I've been eating the equivalent of dog kibble because it's cheaper, using a prison-like-bathroom, and have been showered in cold water and dish soap by nurses. because everyone assumes that we infected will either attack each other or riot if we're put together. I don't have a bed. I don't have personal items. I don't even had friends or family. I've been to war and I've seen people like me be punished cruelly and inhumanely and even killed because we're so disposable. I think I can manage some eccentricities," John assured him firmly. He could tell the man felt guilty immediately and he should. John was out of his cage, but he wasn't free. He would never be free. Even if the proper tagging, he'd never get a real job, he'd never be allowed to purchase himself a flat, and the likelihood that he would get married was nearly nonexistent.

"Thank you, Lestrade, but I can take care of myself."

"Of course. If you need anything, just let me know," Lestrade offered. John hoped he was exaggerating about Sherlock, but he wasn't too worried about it. John hated any kind of special attention, after all.

"Yes. Well. I'm sorry for what I said about your wife. That was none of my business," John apologized. He was hurt and in a cage, he had said a lot of things he probably shouldn't have. God knows when he first arrived here, he was completely willing to do anything to get them to let him go. Thankfully, those things would remain between him and the workers. Desperate people said desperate things.

"I'd be upset with you, but you're right," Lestrade scoffed. The retriever wasn't sure if he was joking or not. Sherlock came stalking out swiftly, obviously intent on getting away from here as soon as possible John couldn't be happier for that. He had to guess that his new owner hadn't gotten along too well with the little worker. Lestrade hurried out of the way to prevent from being shoved as Sherlock climbed into the backseat with his new pet.

"Can you follow this scent?" The fabric was nuzzled against his face again, though John already knew well what it smelled like. He nodded swiftly.

"Of course." If he could find a wounded man in the middle of no where, he could find one man in the city. The window opened and John gladly stuck his head out of it. He hadn't been in public since he was seventeen. This was incredible. For the first time in a long time, John could smell everything. He loved it and found it was a little difficult not to get distracted by his newly lengthened leash. Every time they passed a restaurant, John drooled a little. He could feel Sherlock smacking his tail away behind him but he couldn't stop it from thumping against the man in his excitement. This was more thrilling than when his mother took him to the park when he was little.

"Pull over," Sherlock demanded when he couldn't take it anymore. John watched him get out of the car and instead took up the passenger's seat. He fixed his scarf and brushes a few little blonde hairs from off of his thick coat. Oh! John could groom himself now with an actual brush and his own toothbrush. He really did like his fur, it was nice when it was clean and brushed. He would admit, he was looking forward to that much more than he should have.

John ended up leading them all over London, but that didn't mean he had gotten distracted. This man had been all over the place and the scent was so faint on occasion that it took John a while to sort out his from everyone else. When the sun started to set, Lestrade began to get a little impatient. It wasn't like he was helping at all, having gotten coffee twice while John was stalled. Coffee wasn't helping him smell!

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" the man finally asked. They didn't seem to be any closer than they had to being with but John knew better. He wasn't sure what this man had done, but he'd obviously known his way around London. John was just doing what he was told and following it to the key. They were getting close, though. The scent was getting strong and more concentrate. John's ears pricked up suddenly and his tail went stiff.

"Hard left!" He yipped. "Right! Stop!" The car came to a halting stop and John squeezed himself through the window a little more, swishing his nose around to assess the scent. This was where it ended. He could smell the same cologne and he could clearly smell the disease in the man and it made John jumpy. He was trained to heal people regardless of what they'd done and John hadn't the least idea what he'd done. In fact, this was probably an awful idea. He was pretty sure Lestrade was a police of some sort, he smelled like a police man, but he hadn't seen a police in years. For all he knew, he was helping two men kill someone. However, he could smell death in the building. Surely their motives were at least a little well-meant.

"He's in there," John assured the duo, tail swishing as a sign he was proud of himself. "With a woman." He added on swiftly. "She's dead." She hadn't been for long, the smell was faint, but it was strong enough to know they couldn't help her now.

"I'm calling for back up," Lestrade confirmed, but Sherlock was out of the car in a heartbeat, already beginning toward the empty building with large steps.

"Stay there!" he instructed the police and dog firmly. John pressed his ears down anxiously. What part of 'back up' didn't he understand?

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him. "You can't go in there! He's dangerous!" However, Sherlock paid no attention to his partner and disappeared into the building. John was getting the idea that they weren't very good friends. He tucked his tail between his legs worriedly as he waited for something to happen. After a few minutes of nothing, he could smell the anxiety on Lestrade as well. What was Sherlock doing? More so, what did he think he was doing because John saw no reason this was going to turn out well.

"He's going to get himself killed one day," Lestrade murmured. That was it. John couldn't wait here anymore. It was his duty to protect people, especially people that kept him out of the pound. He hopped out of the window with relative ease and darted for the building, completely ignoring the man shouting at him. If Sherlock did this on a regular basis, they needed to be a lot more worried! Instantly, John went about sniffing him out. He'd spent all day with Sherlock in the small car and it was easy to follow his owner's scent straight up to the open library.

"The gun."

Define the situation: Sherlock was facing down the barrel of a gun from a man who had just killed a woman. Diagnose problem: Sherlock was going to die and John would be taken back to the pound and put down. Conclusion: Disarm threat at all cost and preserve the life of his owner. John launched himself across the room with a single powerful jump and threw his entire weight against the offending man. They knocked to the ground with a heavy 'thump' and the chair toppled over. The man yelled loudly and John heard the gun slide across the floor and promptly out of reach.

"John!"

Threat disarmed: incapacitate. John smashed his forehead firmly against the human's, rendering him unconscious immediately and possibly concussed. John's skull was far thicker and far more stable than his healthy counterpart's. The collar of his grey shirt was grabbed and he was yanked away by a surprisingly strong Sherlock. Beige eyes stared at the man in confusion.

"What did you do?" the man snapped at him viciously. John didn't know what to do. He didn't understand.

"He was going to shoot you!" he reminded his owner pointedly and equally as loud. Usually life saving came with more 'thank yous'.

"It wasn't a real gun," Sherlock sniffed angrily, releasing the retriever's shirt and allowing him a step away.

"Well I'm sorry I didn't think about that. I was too busy saving your life." He hadn't exactly had enough time to stop and check to see if Sherlock really was going to be shot in the face.

"I wasn't in any danger!" Sherlock argued.

"Like hell you weren't! Dead woman in the room, in case you forgot!" John bared his teeth at the man but Sherlock failed to be intimidated whatsoever. The groaning from the man was enough to lure their attention away from their little disagreement. Sherlock approached the mad man quickly, stepping on his wrist to prevent him from pulling anything from the pocket he was reaching for.

"You're going to tell me who you work for," Sherlock demanded. The man only laughed a sickly sounding laugh.

"John," he began and John perked his ears up to listen. "You saw that he had a gun, correct?" That was what they were just having an argument about.

"Yes?" he answered, though he wasn't sure where this conversation was going.

"And he was a direct threat to my life, yes?"

"Correct."

"Then it wouldn't be a surprise if they found your teeth marks on his neck, would it? You are trained to protect people at all cost," he continued on. John knew where this was going now. He padded over and with no further need for instruction, casually placed his canine teeth around the man's throat. At once, the man tilted his head away but that only gave John more room to bite.

"Now then. Who do you work for?"

"People don't say his name and I won't either," the older man insisted, but John could feel his pulse quickening in fear. His teeth rested carefully on the taut skin.

"That's unfortunately. John probably never wanted to do this again," Sherlock answered nonchalantly. The retriever growled low in his throat and felt the man's heart quicken another notch. His pulse was getting dangerously high.

"Careful now, John. The swifter the better."

"Mor-Moriarty!" The man yelped loudly. John retreated at once, flickering his tongue over his teeth. Now he tasted like aneurysm. Gross. He examined the man again and quickly noted that he wasn't breathing. A quick sniff and a pulse check assured him the man was dead. He glanced up to his owner uneasily.

"He had a heart attack," John informed. They couldn't take him back to the pound for this. Sherlock only shrugged, though, seemingly uncaring not in the least worried. John wasn't sure what to say. He was trained to obey, which he decided he should probably rethink when it came to this man, but he wouldn't have actually killed the mad man. At least, he was almost positive he wouldn't have.

"Come along, Watson. Our work here is done," Sherlock informed him stiffly. He began to leave and John hurriedly hopped on his heels to prevent from being left behind.

"What work is that, exactly?" he finally asked, hoping desperately it was something legal. John had no idea what he would do if it wasn't. He didn't have much of a choice, of course, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to actually help them do illegal things.

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I created the job," Sherlock sniffed proudly. John had no idea what that was. It sounded fishy, but relatively harmless. He followed the man out of the building and was met with the sight of the arriving police. Thankfully, they seemed to be on the same side. He listened to Sherlock and Lestrade quietly argue, and fortunately, it made far more sense of the situation. Serial murderer. He killed a serial murderer, indirectly. John breathed a sigh of relief. After the two men were done arguing, he and Sherlock were allowed to go home. Well, actually, Sherlock just kind of walked away in the middle of Lestrade's sentence and dragged his new pet along by his dog tags. They weren't followed, though, so he assumed this kind of thing happened on a daily basis.

"You're probably hungry," the man sniffed as though it were an afterthought. "Do you eat Chinese food?"

"I eat food," John assured him. He wasn't picky. As long as it wasn't kibble, he'd gladly give it a try. He didn't want to see another piece of kibble for the rest of his life. As they began down the street, a car with tinted windows pulled alongside of them and instantly, John perked his ears and stiffened his tail in defense. He was serious about not going back to the pound. Even if he knew he'd get caught, he could at least try to run.

"Sherlock," the posh man said firmly as he stepped out from the back of the car. "Mind explaining that to me?" He pointed to the Golden Retriever viciously and John growled in response. Most people at least attempted to be nice at first.

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered plainly and indifferently. "This is my new flatmate John Watson."

"That is not a flatmate, Sherlock. That is a disgusting creature that will kill you." 'Mycroft' scolded the younger man ruthlessly.

"I do understand you," John snapped, an audible noise form between the clasp of his teeth.

"I know what they do to these things and it isn't safe to keep in your house," the man continued with no sign that he had heard the dog talk whatsoever. John already didn't like this man. His nose told him that they were related and considering their age, John concluded that they were brothers.

"I think I can make the decision for myself," the shorter of the two men insisted pointedly.

"This isn't up for debate," Mycroft sneered.

"Good. I wasn't debating." Sherlock patted his thigh to summon his pet and John naturally followed the come hither movement. A small flicker of his curved, blonde tail told the older man off. He was perfectly safe to be around. Even while in the midst of war, he did his best to not kill anything. He was a doctor, of course, and that did help. Regardless, he had a conscience and he was mostly human. He wished more people would understand that.

"You're not limping," his owner said after a few moments of silently walking. John glanced down to his knee. He was right. He wasn't sure when that had happened, but his knee didn't hurt like it had before. His knee had never actually been injured, but this was surprising. He thought he would limp for the rest of his life. That was incredible.

"Thank you," John murmured. It was thanks to Sherlock, after all. The man had saved him and now healed him.

"You're welcome," Sherlock answered smugly.


	2. Understanding the Blind Mutt

Bring Me Back A Dog

_"__Intelligent __dogs __rarely __want __to __please __people __whom __they __do __not __respect__." -__W__.__R__. __Koehler_

Chapter Two: Blind the Mutt

Part One: Understand

(Notes on Jawn's description down below)

This was great. In fact, it was bloody fantastic!

John practically drooled the entire way home, the scent of the delicious, real food with real meat and vegetables. If his willpower had been any lesser than it was, he wouldn't have been able to wait and most likely would have torn into the bag and box in the middle of the sidewalk with no regard to what other people would think. His stomach growled at him with need and he was worried that it upset his new owner. Fortunately, he caught sight of the smallest of amused smiles from the man. It was so short and light, however, John might have imagined it.

He remained good, though, carrying the plastic bag all the way home and ignoring the temptation to rip it open and fill his starving belly. Eventually, Sherlock stopped in front of the door and patiently unlocked it. John made note of where they were and what was around them in case he ever needed to find his way home. He was sure he'd never be out alone, though. That sounded like a terrible, terrible idea.

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm glad you're back. You left in such a rush," the older looking lady scolded him gently. John peeked his ears up and waved his tail cautious but in a friendly fashion. She instantly looked confused, but thankfully not upset.

"Sherlock," she began slowly. "Who is this?" It seemed like she was being overly careful. She was probably worried he was dangerous. John couldn't blame it on her, though. He was sure most people were under the assumption that the Infected were always dangerous all of the time. That wasn't completely untrue, but most of them knew better than to attack healthy people. In fact, the only time healthy people were ever injured by an Infected was after being physically provoked or in the event of protecting another human. Most of them would even prefer to run away then defend themselves considering how easy it was to have the blame put on them. Of course, since they were originally like the healthy humans, it only went to say that some Infected just liked hurting people regardless of rank, but these kinds of people were usually subdued before any harm could be done to themselves or others.

John didn't condone the killing of the Infected, humanely or otherwise, but they were right. The Infected could be extremely dangerous and if one were to actively strive to injure healthy and infected people, it was likely they would succeed and even start a revolt. The very idea frightened the poor dog. John knew they needed help, but not the kind of help that would start a killing spree. It would do no one any good to start attacking the rest of the population. John certainly didn't blame her for being nervous of him. It was the smart thing to do.

"This is John Watson," Sherlock introduced, though he brushed her off slightly to trot up to his flat. John gently and politely held his hand out to the older woman, assuring her he was completely harmless to her. She hesitated a moment, but he smiled, without showing any teeth, and she seemed to understand.

"Nice to meet you dear. I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady," she introduced herself and placed a soft hand on his head. John lowered his head minutely to allow the woman to pet him. Mrs. Hudson appeared to change her mind rather suddenly and the next thing he knew, she was scratching him heartedly behind the floppy golden ears just slightly higher than his human ears would have been and John was loving it. His tail swished around wildly, hitting the back of his legs and brushing against the wall behind him.

"John!"

"Yes! Sorry! Coming!" the dog barked swiftly, embarrassed of himself for getting lost in the ear scratching. Mrs. Hudson only smiled at him, though, letting him know that they were on good terms.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson," he nodded his head politely, resisting the urge to bow like he was taught in his early military years. He was a person for goodness sake!

"I promise, I'm not the least bit destructive. I won't hurt the flat in any way," John promised kindly before hurrying after his owner and into his new home. He placed the aromatic food on the kitchen table and instantly began to wander. He sniffed over the table and all the things on it. Then he moved on to the counters and the doorway. He trotted into what he assumed was Sherlock's room and then into the bathroom before returning to the living room and searching that out as well. He made his way around Sherlock and where he sat nit picking through the Chinese food. The man didn't move and John curiously sniffed at him as well and his plate. Sherlock nudged him away with his foot like subduing an overactive puppy and John retreated.

"There's another room upstairs, dear," Mrs. Hudson assured him with a delicate smile. John's tail was getting quite the exercise today and he expectantly turned to make sure it was okay with Sherlock. The man wasn't interested in the conversation in the least, however, let alone what John was doing. He turned back to the woman and nodded more than happily.

"Yes. Thank you. That would be lovely," John agreed quickly. Sherlock didn't deny him the room and the dog was more than happy to trudge along upstairs to check out his new room. This was just too great. If he woke up, he was going to be very upset. This couldn't possibly be a dream. The room was relatively empty besides the bookshelf and the sheeted bed. It was clean and John couldn't smell anyone else on it. It had probably been empty a while. He stretched himself out on the sheet and nuzzled it happily. It was soft and warm and a _bed_. He knew it would soon smell like him and it would be his and this would be his home. John just couldn't believe his luck.

The Golden Retriever had never expected to be adopted and even if he was, he was sure it was going to be by some unsavory figure. As far as he could tell, Sherlock wasn't like that. He hadn't known the man long, of course, a couple hours at the most, but so far the man had hardly considered him a dog. Some of his motions and disregard was towards an animal, but he seemed to treat everyone like that and John wouldn't take it personally.

He quickly remembered the food downstairs and darted back down to enjoy the warm people food. John seated himself at the table and happily took up a fork and began to eat. Real food on a real table with a real fork. That was it. He had obviously died and now he was in his own personal heaven. John ate his fill and when he was done, he rested his chin on the table, his tail swinging leisurely between the gap in the chair.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" His owner's voice made John prick his ears up, naturally assuring the man that he was listening. The question didn't register completely, but it didn't need to for an answer to come.

"Afghanistan." After John realized what he'd been asked, he realized it was a strange question. The shelter didn't give out that information. It was unneeded and as far as John knew, the military withheld information like that. They were very closed lipped about what happened with the Infected after they left which begged the question; how on Earth did Sherlock know that.

"I-" His brother seemed to know a lot about him. At least, the older man seemed to know 'what they do to those things'. However, it didn't look like Sherlock and his brother got along too well. Any normal siblings would probably take the suggestion into consideration. John was very deadly but not dangerous.

"How did you know that, exactly?" John turned in his seat a little to view Sherlock. The man gave him a look as though the answer was obvious. Then he said,

"It's obvious." It very much wasn't, actually. It was very much not obvious. John watched him with huge, questioning beige eyes. Sherlock gave a slightly irritated noise and for whatever reason, John felt bad for not knowing the answer.

"Post traumatic stress disorder, therefore, you most likely have served. You're Infected, you have served without question. Tan marks around the neck but not above the wrist: you served somewhere there's a lot of sun in uniform. You were injured. Where is there lots of sun where someone like you could be injured? Iraq or Afghanistan. Simple." He explained in that tiresome, mellow voice of his. John wasn't sure what to say. He'd put it together just like that?

"You've already stated that you were a medic. Studied at Bart's." He misunderstood it as a question and John nodded swiftly. He was ignored, of course. It seemed Sherlock didn't need his assurance.

"Your sister was a little harder." John stiffened all together; tail flagged up in weariness, floppy ears pricked up as much as they could be, and big beige eyes fixed on his owner in near disbelief. It was impossible he could know about his sister. He didn't even have any strings attached to his family anymore. Though he was allowed to keep his name for the ease of it all, he wasn't a Watson anymore.

"It was a little more difficult. The things they do to you drown out your personality and tells fairly well. I had to make my deductions based on your actions. While we were out, you were clearly sidetracked by a certain type of woman. Older, blonde, a little on the heavy side. Obviously not sexual attraction, your sex drive is numbed." John scowled a little at the reminder. That wasn't something he liked to be reminded of, after all.

"I doubt you're sexually attracted to anyone."

"It'll wear off," the retriever insisted irritably. To prevent the Infected from getting a little too friendly with one another, they were given a series of shots. One, of course, dulled his ability to become aroused. That doused the need to get romantic in most cases, though some still did try. John hadn't thought about it until now, but he was glad that would be returning too. Again, Sherlock ignored him.

"What else could you be looking for? Family. You were towards a specific age, too. Too young to be your mother. I doubt you would know any distant family. Therefore, sister," Sherlock finished with a proud little flourish of the hand.

"That - was brilliant," John blurted out before he knew he had. He wasn't sure how Sherlock had put all that together let alone in such a small amount of time. It was eerie, of course, and invasive, but so bloody brilliant. Sherlock seemed almost shocked by his outburst and John momentarily worried he'd done something wrong. The man looked away a little, almost looking surprised.

"Really?" he murmured as if he were indifferent to the comment. John knew better, though. "That's not what people usually say," Sherlock admitted with a glance away. John didn't see why not. Was there any other way to respond to that?

"What do people usually say?" the dog questioned curiously.

"_Piss __off_." John was reminded of what Lestrade had told him earlier, or rather had warned him of. The DI was wrong about him. Sherlock was just lonely, that was all. Even John could see that.

"Take your clothes off." Alright, he was a little eccentric. The dog lowered his tail in annoyance. He really would prefer not to, as if he had to say that outloud. Sure he was use to people seeing him naked, but that didn't mean he liked it. What on Earth did Sherlock want him to do that for anyways? The man must have read his mind for he sighed irritably and proceeded to explain himself.

"I want to see how much this cure altered your appearance."

"I could just tell you," John offered hopefully. He didn't mind that the man was curious about him, but did that really mean he had to undress?

"Tedious."

"I don't suppose I'm going to get out of this, am I?" the dog huffed in surrender. Sherlock only gave an amused arch of a brow, which was far more damning than any words could be. John sighed reluctantly, but the warm meal in his belly made him less apprehensive than he would have been. Sherlock probably knew that, too. He quietly left the table and padded into the open living room with a small swish of the tail. Though he was very much against this, he had no trouble stripping down to his pants for his new owner. He had very little, if any, shame left.

Then he stood there. Sherlock examined him mercilessly and John nervously tucked his tail between his legs as if it would somehow make him safer. He knew he had a little more pudge around his belly than he ought to have, but he doubted this man cared at all. In fact, he seemed mostly concerned with the patches of blonde fur that laid down smoothly on his chest trailed over his navel and into the waistband of his pants before continuing down each leg. So he was a little hairy, even if it wasn't hair at all, but it was the soft kind everyone wanted to pet. At least, if he'd been an actual dog. No one actually wanted to pet an Infected. That was weird for everyone.

Sherlock motioned him to turn around and John became even more nervous with his back turned. People weren't supposed to be behind him, after all, especially people he had just met today. Not that John would bite him or something if he was touched or anything. He could control himself. To be fair, the growling was instinctual. Sherlock grabbed his tail, not in the gentlest of ways, but not too hard, and flagged it up.

He didn't like this. He didn't like his tail being handled. This was uncomfortable. John took a deep breath, soothing another growl that formed in his throat and did his best to be patient with the man. Surely everyone knew better than to grab a dog's tail. That was just asking to be bitten. His tail was yanked straight and John warned him with a low growl that he wasn't going to stand for this much longer. A finger trailed over the notches of his spine and followed the natural curve where skin met fur. Thankfully, his owner seemed to understand the little warning and let him go. John snapped his tail back between his legs with a huff.

"Show me your teeth." Oh, he was going to see teeth. The Golden Retriever bared his teeth over his lip and Sherlock examined the series of forty two teeth fighting for space in his much too small mouth. The ears came last, which was slightly more welcomed. Sherlock drew one of the floppy ears out and examined where it connected to his skull.

"What about your feet?" Sherlock questioned pointedly and John glanced down to his bandaged feet. He really wasn't supposed to unwrap them for another couple months, but he hardly saw how it would make a difference now that he was a pet. He adjusted his weight to balance easily on one foot while he undid the wrapping on his left, then his right. His height difference was immediately noticeable as his paws laid flat. That felt so much better.

"Certain types are required to get surgery done to make movement easier and more fluid." John flexed his toes a little, slightly unnerved by his own feet.

"Haven't had it yet," the dog admitted, feeling the pain wash over him a few moments later from being unbound. The binding had drawn his feet in to prepare him to walk on his toes and adjust his feet to accept the treatment better. He was a little relieved that he didn't have to go through it now. Usually it was done earlier in life, but he'd been on the border of inefficiency for most of his life. His feet were a little shorter than most, and he had an extra 'toe' on the back of his heel (though it was more of a lump than an actual toe) and, yes, occasionally it was a little difficult to adjust from walking to running to sprinting simply due to the mash of human and canine shaping, but it had never really done much damage to his abilities.

Then, Sherlock appeared to be satisfied, for now anyways. John hurriedly dressed himself, flinching only slightly at each step on his newly freed feet. Fortunately there didn't seem to be much damage done on either of his feet, though now it would take some time for them to go back to normal. With a final glance back to his new owner, as if to expect another request, John returned to the table. Quietly, he gathered up the leftover and removed them from the already cluttered table.

The dog let out a startled, embarrassing noise upon opening the refrigerator. He snapped it closed at once, hobbling back an awkward step. He was obviously imagining things. John cracked the door open again and was disappointed to see, in fact, he wasn't imagining it. There was a head! A severed head in the fridge! He was suddenly far less sure about this whole situation.

"H-head," he whined against his will.

"Yes. Don't touch it. It's for an experiment," Sherlock assured him for the living room. John wasn't sure if that was a proper response for anything about severed body parts. He was going to die and Sherlock was going to experiment on his head!

"It's donated from Bart's." Oh. Surprisingly, that made John feel much better. As long as it was legal and Sherlock wasn't doing the severing. It was still weird, but, well, John's tail loosened from its flagged state. He dared to open the fridge and took a moment to find a place to tuck the left over food for him to eat later. It wasn't that hard considering the fridge was mostly empty. Starving was suddenly a worry. Hopefully Sherlock went shopping eventually. How did he eat?

The Golden Retriever spent another hour pondering through the new flat to search out everything and quietly smell everything. His second look around revealed some less than friendly things and his third drove him to actually clean some of it. John did so carefully at first, tossing a crumpled piece of paper into the bin and then swiftly looking towards Sherlock to make sure it was okay. It seemed he wasn't here. John continued to dispose of more obvious pieces of rubbish, namely things that weren't labeled or were plainly disgusting and broken. Sherlock didn't even look at him. The flat was looking better already. He wouldn't dare toss anything he might get in trouble for later and when he had done all that he could do, John abandoned the second floor for the third.

Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to lend him a pillow and an extra blanket for the night and John could barely wait. A bed! It was a bed! Without another thought, John stripped down to his pants and nuzzled his nose under the covers. His tail wagged pleasantly and he wormed under the blankets until his nose poked out the otherside. He settled himself down, tail lying limply between his legs and head rested on the soft pillow. John was more than happy to stretch himself over the entire bed. This was so much more comfortable, no doubt.

John gave a long, heavy, and pleasure filled sigh. Fantastic.

Without the need for any other discrepancies, John drifted into one of the best sleeps of his life so far and though he didn't know it, the last one for a long time. He didn't even have a single nightmare. None from the war, or the cages, or his training. He didn't dream, but he preferred it that way, honestly. To just sleep the night away on a lovely mattress with the most wonderful blankets was more than he could ask for.

In the morning, he was awaken by his own instincts. For once, he didn't mind being awake at seven in the morning. The first thing he realized was that he didn't have another pair of clothes, or a toothbrush or anything else he could call his own. Without another choice, he redressed in the same dull clothes given to him. He wasn't about to wear his ruined uniform anywhere. In fact, he would prefer to burn it. He wouldn't, just in case, but he wanted to. Once dressed, he quietly trotted down to the living room. Sherlock was still in his chair. His own concerns were momentarily tossed out.

"Sherlock?" the dog questioned softly. "Have you been there all night."

"Obviously," Sherlock answered absently. John was curious as to what he was doing. He supposed it was something in the man's head that he wouldn't understand, so he let the man be. He made tea, which was a little harder than he remembered it being. After a half hour of struggling with the teapot and trying to remember how to plug the bloody thing in all while making sure he didn't choose an outlet that would electrocute him or bump into any of Sherlock's experiments, John finally made himself a good cup of tea. He, loyal as he was, placed another cup in Sherlock's reach in hopes that he would have a bit when he was done with whatever it was that was in his head. The man didn't respond.

John made it his personal job not to let Sherlock die. It couldn't possibly be that hard. His second job, make sure Sherlock didn't let _him_die. Surely the man knew he needed food. Of course he knew that. What he probably didn't know was that it was hazardous and stupid for John to go outside on his own. Some stores probably wouldn't even allow him in on his own and he had no desire to go back to the pound. Who knew how long it would be until Sherlock came and got him! He didn't seem like a man to have priorities like bailing John out of the pound. Now he knew why Lestrade had reminded his new owner that he needed to be taken care of. John hadn't been aware, at the time, that Sherlock was such a bachelor.

Which also made him curious as to Sherlock's relationship status. John couldn't smell any females (besides Mrs. Hudson, of course) in the flat. There was a distinct smell of the DI, though, along with the faintest of a group of people that were most likely only there yesterday and not for very long. Lestrade was definitely here often, though. Maybe they were 'partners' as John had originally thought. He quietly tried to remember anything that would prove this point while he searched for something for breakfast. All of the bread was molded, he nearly threw the milk out of the window at the first whiff of it, there wasn't the smallest ounce of jam, or eggs, or meat. Eventually, John simply returned to the remaining food from the night before.

"Sherlock-"Before John could suggest that they do some shopping, he was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson.

"That nice detective is here, Sherlock," she informed and John's nose was instantly drawn to the tray she held. The wonderful older woman placed it down in front of him and gladly rubbed him behind the ears. "There you are, dear. Knowing Sherlock he hasn't offered you a thing."

"Thank you," John barked back happily, swinging his tail around enthusiastically. He loved biscuits! Which was something he would keep to himself due to the reason he loved biscuits. His family might have done their best to consider him a person through his entire childhood, but it was hard not to take advantage of the fact that he naturally sat when offered a biscuit. The easiest way to get the little blonde, bitey, barking, whining, big eyed puppy to do anything was to offer him a biscuit. Which, sure enough, continued out through his entire life. He was ashamed to say that biscuits played a huge part in his training. It didn't help that they were probably the best food he'd been given in the military.

Not that Mrs. Hudson knew that. Or anyone else for that matter. He waited for her to skitter away before happily helping himself to the plate. Tea and biscuits. Fantastic.

"What are you doing here, Lestrade?" Sherlock insisted with an agitated tone. John perked his ears up swiftly, quickly being reminded that the other man was here and attempting to pick up any signs of whatever their relationship was (with a mouthful of biscuit). They certainly didn't sound like they were in a relationship. Not that Sherlock seemed to do anything in a conventional way.

"Because I knew you'd do this." Lestrade snapped as he pushed the edge of his coats back. "I told you, Sherlock. _You __have __to __take __care __of __John_. No offence," he added in as awkwardly as ever. John watched him with huge, but otherwise indifferent, beige eyes. "He is a living, breathing, feeling thing that needs food, and water, and love. I tried to explain this to you yesterday."

"He's not a pet," Sherlock sneered back, more annoyed at being bothered than defending the dog. John wagged his tail a little. It was nice that his owner didn't think of him as a pet.

"Not to you or me, but everyone else just sees a massive dog. You can't expect everyone to be as neutral as you. He goes out there on his own, looking for food or water or _you_, and people will think he's a stray. A _dangerous_ stray."

"He's not," Sherlock answered. Lestrade clearly wasn't happy with the man. The older man rubbed his eyes as if to relieve the pressure of his forming headache and made the smart decision of not continuing this argument. It would go nowhere fast. Instead, he turned to the retriever and John met his eyes to assure that he was paying attention completely.

"Come on. I'll take you shopping. Sherlock. Card." Fortunately, Sherlock didn't seem to need a reason for paying for things and motioned the DI to where his wallet sat. John decided that he would do his best to find something that would bring some kind of income.

"Do'ya have your tags?" Lestrade checked and John held the chain out properly.

"Of course." As if he were stupid enough to go anywhere without them. The DI nodded and John hurriedly padded after him with the faintest of goodbyes to his owner. Lestrade continued to apologize for calling him a pet (even though John knew what he really meant was 'animal') and insisted that he didn't think of the retriever as one, but John knew better. Saying things and doing things were two different things and when the DI continued to say these things while treating him like a dog, John tried not to let it bother him. People just couldn't help it, unfortunately. He looked like a dog and it was natural for Lestrade to open up the passenger side door and motion him in with a 'hup'. Instantly, he seemed to know that this was a terribly insulting thing to do, and, once again, awkwardly apologized.

John wrapped his tail around his waist to prevent from sitting on it and politely didn't say a word. It wasn't like his attempts were malicious, after all. It wasn't Lestrade's fault that everyone had the assumption that he was a dangerous and instinctual creature. He was a human with the benefits of being dangerous and having instincts. Honestly, people would be pleasantly surprised if they spent even the smallest amount of time learning what the Infected actually were like. He was a doctor! He could perform complicated surgeries and save peoples lives! How could they still believe he was an animal? He could use tools and hold conversations and grasp complication concepts that not even most healthy humans could.

It was only fair, though. With that said, he understood that people were afraid of him. Not as a person, but as a species. He was healthier, stronger, smarter, and often times, would even live longer. Some people were even theorizing that they were the next step in human evolution, and that scared people. It shouldn't, but it did. They'd be outnumbered first, then they'd be gone, but they wouldn't really. Changing was not being 'gone'. His parents were human, and his grandparents, and his great grandparents and John had their qualities. He was a Watson, which was wonderful to say, and he was a better Watson, which was even better to say.

"I don't- I don't keep meaning to do that," Lestrade mumbled after a few minutes.

"You're a Detective Inspector. You were trained to handle unruly Infected, which, like humans, some of are unstable, angry, deranged, and dangerous. Unlike the healthy, you're trained to not take any chances because, whether dangerous or not, we're deadly and given any leeway, it is entirely possible to kill dozens of innocents before you get us. It's easier to kill one innocent Infected than cause a riot. Most of us still look human, though, and naturally humans do not want to kill other humans. So you start to think of us as animals. It's easier to kill a rabid dog than it is to kill a confused, possibly sick Infected. It's not your fault. It started long before you were a detective and long before I was a retriever. I know it's too much to ask for everyone to be as indifferent as Sherlock. I do warn you to be careful, though. Not all Infected, like the healthy, are as calm and understanding as I am, Lestrade. What you treat like an animal will act like an animal and what you treat badly will react badly. And badly treated animals bite to self preserve." Let the DI think of him as an animal now. His training involved reading and writing and knowing and learning just like everyone else's. Lestrade proved that it was easy to listen. Silence followed, the man clearly needing to arrange his thoughts.

"How do you know that?" he finally questioned.

"About your work? Because the government is very closed lipped about the Infected, but they're not about the healthy. I'm a doctor first. I will save everyone starting with the healthy and ending with the rank as protocol. I'm a solider second. I will pick up my weapon and I will shoot to kill, not because I have to but because I know if I don't get them first, they will get me or one of my unit. Then I am defense. When I can no longer go to the fight, I protect my base from the fight with my life. Both because I have to and if only I survive, I have failed myself and my unit. Then I am a protector. If needed, I may be picked out to help the healthy. When the New Scotland Yard cannot go any further, they call in a pack, a group of Infected, to finish it. We disarm bombs, neutralize threats with a forty or higher percent of fatalities, and take on threats that are deemed too dangerous for the healthy. So yes, I know how you work, how you're trained, how to do your job, and naturally, your mind set. And I have said too much and you're going to be intimidated."

"The teeth were kind of intimidating before." The detective clearly had no idea how to respond to that new bit of information, but John hoped he made at least a little bit of a difference. Maybe now he wouldn't immediately assume every 'stray' Infected is trying to kill someone. Sometimes a fight is just a fight! It was wrong to assume that the Infected was going to automatically kill whoever they were fighting with.

"Greg," Lestrade said after another few moments.

"I'm sorry?" John responded bemusedly.

"You can call me Greg." 'Greg' assured him with a much friendlier smile. He was friendly before, but that awkward 'I'm friendly because I don't understand and you might bite me' friendly. Hopefully, this would mark a change of thought, even if not his actions.

"I will." The dog returned the smile with his usual closed mouth smile. Never any teeth for obvious reasons. Upon arriving at the collection of stores, John hovered around Lestrade cautiously. This would be his first time in public since he was a pup. He'd been in the car yesterday, of course, and all over London, but that wasn't public. Neither was the deserted Chinese place. This was real public with people and kids and possible activists and anti-activists. He felt relieved to know he was with someone who held importance, though.

People stared, but that wasn't unexpected. John remained no more than five steps behind Lestrade and no closer than three. Every person he passed stared. They watched him with differing looks of amusement, and horror, and 'look how cute' or 'how terrible'. It was weird to be back around healthy people. He pretended not to be bothered by it, though, and ignored them, only keeping his tail flagged to make sure they kept their distance. The last thing he wanted was someone trying to attack him, and while he didn't mind being pet, it was best they kept their distance lest he think they were trying to attack him.

Clothes came first. John was surprised to find a small section dedicated specially to the Infected. Exactly how many Infected were being taken in as pets? Surely this wasn't a normal thing. He was less surprised to find out that most of the clothes didn't fit him. Infected were clearly known for being massive creatures and John was, well, not.

"You could just cut a hole for your tail," Greg offered helpfully. He was trying, at least, even if it wasn't helpful at all.

"It's not actually pleasant to try to shove my tail through a poorly shaped piece of fabric. Nor is it fun to have chaffing anywhere where there's fur. Thanks, though." The next best bet was to wear normal pants backwards, which was essentially what Infected pants were, but the natural shaping made it awkward.

"This is more difficult than I thought it would be."

"Not much of a market for people who spend all their time in supplied uniforms," John murmured as he examined another pair of strangely numbered pants. Did they really find it necessary to try and size the pants different from the healthy ones? It wasn't like he was drastically different! He just wanted a nice pair of pants that his tail wouldn't get caught in.

Then he let out a terribly embarrassing yip, startling himself and Greg. John hobbled forward an awkward step before nearly tripping over his own feet as he tried to turn around to face his 'attacker'. It was a little girl. A little girl had pulled his tail! She stared at him with huge eyes and for a moment, he was sure he had frightened her with his noise.

"Puppy." She smiled at him. John stiffened his tail, glancing around frantically for the girl's mother or father to make sure she wasn't alone and he wouldn't be blamed for something stupid. Fortunately, her mother was close by.

"Katy!" the older woman scolded. "I'm so sorry. Katy, that was very rude." John was confused. Was she actually scolding the girl for pulling his tail? She should, of course, he could have bitten her, but he didn't actually expect her to. He didn't expect her to do it because it was 'rude', either.

"Apologize to the nice man."

"I'm sorry," the young girl apologized pitifully. John sniffed curiously at the pair, indiscreetly, but neither of them were Infected. They were completely healthy and sincere.

"It's fine," John assured the pair softly, lowering his tail to a calm swish. "Don't worry about it. Kids will be curious." He nodded gently. He couldn't actually be mad at her. She was just a little girl. She didn't know any better. The older woman smiled back at him.

"Can I pet you puppy?"

"Katy!"

"It's fine. Really," John promised again. She was a little girl. What was he supposed to do? Say no? He crouched down a little, tail cautiously wagging against the carpeted floor. Enthusiastically, the little girl reached for his blonde head and happily pressed her palm firmly along his floppy ears. It was a little uncomfortable, but she giggled happily and he allowed her to continue.

"So soft puppy," she complimented happily. Her mother gently motioned her to come along, giving John a lasting smile.

"Come on, Katy. Your fathers are waiting. Thank you so much. "

"Bye puppy." The little girl waved by clenching her fingers happily. John returned the motion gently.

"Bye Katy."

"You're so good with kids," Lestrade teased, nudging the dog forward a little and away from the clothing rack. John swiped his tail behind him and turned about to face the man. He huffed mildly.

"Well, most kids like animals." To be honest, John had never been around kids before. Not as an adult, at least. He had to guess it was his instincts that drove him to be so good with kids. They hadn't done anything wrong. He turned back to the clothing, shuffling through the rest of the trousers pointedly.

"Think she was an activist?" The DI murmured in a mild attempt to hold conversation. John shrugged slightly.

"I'm not sure. It'd be great if she wasn't. Just normal people." It was so nice to be treated so nicely by just average, everyday people. John gathered enough clothes to make a decent wardrobe, if only a small one. Shoes were unneeded, and he found a lovely, cheap set of bed covers. Then came his personal goods. He couldn't wait to get home and properly groom himself in the comfort of his own home. Lestrade was very nice and after the initial awkwardness, he could see them becoming really good friends. He also quickly discovered there was nothing going on between Gregory and Sherlock. John would admit, he was a little relieved. Not that Gregory wasn't a great person or anything. John just wasn't currently fond of the idea of his owner dating anyone. Sherlock needed to pay attention to him right now. Which, thankfully, Greg helped out by taking him to the grocery for real food. Really, surely Sherlock couldn't live off no food. Sometimes healthy humans were far stranger.

When they returned, thankfully Sherlock had moved from his seat on the couch. He seemed to have helped himself to the tea as well and was currently working away at his computer. He offered neither of them greeting, but only a small glance of indifferent attention.

"You'll be okay, John?" Greg offered gently.

"Of course," John nodded smoothly. He had everything he needed and could finally get on with taking care of the two of them. Sherlock clearly wasn't up to the task.

"Call me if you need anything," the DI assured him with a suspicious glance to Sherlock. The man ignored him, though.

"Will do," the dog promised him and anxiously watched the man leave. Once he had, he swiftly turned to his owner who continued to show him no attention

"Do you need something?" John offered the man casually.

"Why would I need something?" Sherlock murmured pointedly. The dog simply shook it off, too excited to get on with pampering himself. He picked up his bag and hurried into the bathroom to groom himself. John couldn't care less what Sherlock thought right now, he wanted to be clean. He showed, lathering his fur up three times with just the excitement of using real soap again. Then he dried himself off and combed out every inch of his fur, detangling any matting and knots with the fine-toothed comb. For once in a long, long time, his golden fur was actually golden. Then, with his own toothbrush, he quietly went about brushing his teeth. It felt so nice to not have anything stuck between his teeth or the weird layer that the shelter toothpaste left on his teeth.

He was clean! He was clean and happy! John hurriedly pulled on his new, clean clothes, and examined himself in the mirror. He didn't look like a stray now. They couldn't possibly call him a stray now. He fluffed out his tail and ruffled his hair a little and breathed a sigh of relief. Normal life. All he wanted was a nice, normal life. When he deemed himself presentable, he exited the bathroom and proceeded to put everything away.

John could see his life really turning around. His tail wagged.

* * *

John struggles to get back in touch with humanity, but some Infected are less fond of the idea. Bengal Tiger Sebastian Moran lives a different sort of life. Want to see how he lives? Read '_Bring Me Back A Tiger_'. Rated M for violence.

* * *

EDIT: I was trying not to do this, but people seem to be having a hard time visualizing John and I'm pretty sure you guys are over thinking it. So I'm just going to add some help here.  
Let us take a Jawn and remove the ears. Now, if you'd like, google golden retriever and give Jawn those floppy ears and fluffy tail. I think everyone had that part down.  
I think I threw a little people off with the fur part. Jawn is not a furry.He's really just a hairy man but instead of it being hair, it's fur. So, it's intense over his breast and then less intense over his belly and then it thickens again down his legs. There's a bit on his back and shoulders, but it's about medium intensity.

This next part _really _threw you guys off. The only part of Jawn with altered bone are his feet. His skull is completely normal, his legs, knees, arms, ect are in no way changed. If he threw on his shoes, a hat, and tucked his tail in his pants, no one would know he was an Infected. Look at your feet. Now, Jawn's feet are about the length his feet would be without his toes (that's about an inch- inch and a half or some random number in metric because I never learned metric) shorter. He has claws and paws on his feet and that little extra toe most dogs have and it's located right on the back of his heel. He walks flat footed (like a human), but he runs on his toes (like a typical werewolf I suppose). So his foot is at a bit of an angle. When Jawn walks (flat foot) his heel doesn't completely touch the ground. It's not notice when he's wearing shoes (especially the right kind of shoes), but it can be very awkward when he's barefoot. He's use to it by now, so it doesn't make him clumsy, but he can run with much more ease and fluidness.  
Almost forget his teeth. Give Jawn some nitrous oxide and take his teeth out. Now put in dog's teeth. Googling this also helps. See how they have gaps between their teeth? Jawn doesn't have those. His teeth are jammed in pretty tightly. So it gives him one hell of a bit, but the top sort of slid over his bottom teeth instead of fitting perfectly together. It doesn't effect the way he talks or eats, but it makes it difficult to smile properly (which he doesn't do anyways because it freaks people out).  
And on a final note, his joints don't affect his physical appearance. He has sort of a second joint (in each of his joints) that allows him to move around painlessly and in ways that the healthy can't, but it's not visible in any way.  
So Jawn, being only a type 2, isn't even close to a furry (which would appear at types 8-10) and if he covered up properly he'd look just like a healthy. Jawn is only one kind of Infected, though. They comes in a variety of different blends so not all type 2s are like Jawn. You can imagine all of the other Infected however you'd like. These things will kind of be important later (they're kind of important now and I guess I did an awful job at dropping hints and confused you all way more than I meant to) but they'll likely get another explanation later.  
I should just dedicate a tumblr or something to this AU. It's getting a little out of hand. . .


	3. Yellow Collar the Blind Mutt

Bring Me Back A Dog

_"__Beware __of __a __silent __dog __and __still __water__."_ - Latin Proverb

Chapter Two: The Blind Mutt  
Part Two: Yellow Collar

The next few days proceeded on without event. It was comfortable. Sherlock wasn't particularly interested in him and John did his best not to disturb the man while he made himself comfortable in his new home. It was such a nice place and Mrs. Hudson was just amazing towards him even going as far as to share tea with him. After his stupor following the closing of his case, Sherlock fell into a bizarre lifestyle. The poor dog could barely keep up with his 'experiments' most the time. They were ridiculous is what they were. John had to get used to Sherlock disappearing, too. Sometimes he would just be gone for hour without speaking a word to the poor dog.

He was definitely eccentric.

A week later, John had to return to the store for more food and this time, he felt brave enough to go alone. No one bothered him really, he wasn't kicked out of the store, and no one stared, so he deemed it relatively safe to wander the radius of his home unaccompanied. He did find it a little strange that the CCTV cameras had a tendency to follow him. His only real problem was the chip and pin machine. It was evil and that was his excuse. John was also reminded that the Healthy didn't exactly like it when you barked loudly at their machines.

It was later that day Sherlock spoke to him again. His owner had been watching him rather closely since he cleaned himself up, but he hadn't mentioned the new look. John was discovering that this wasn't unusual behavior and ignored it. If he didn't say anything, the dog wasn't going to worry himself. It was a little unnerving, though, since he wasn't actually sure what his owner wanted from him yet. He'd brought him home because of his nose and Sherlock was clearly a fantastic detective, so what did he need John for?

"We're going to the bank, John." And that was all Sherlock told him.

John knew instantly that Sherlock's so-called bank was not exactly a bank. The closer they got, the more obvious it was that they were straying into upper class living. It made the retriever nervous. The people around Baker Street might be nice to his kind, but these people wouldn't be. They were the kind of people that bought Infected and treated them like sideshow freaks and animals. Sure enough, it was not an ordinary bank. Surely Sherlock didn't expect him to go in there.

He did. Of course he did. John kept on his owner's heels as they entered and stayed there. He tucked his tail between his legs, trying to appear as nonaggressive as possible. Still, the people stared and it wasn't mixed emotions. They were disgusted by him and more likely, him not being on a leash. Fortunately, no one said anything to him. They weren't that stupid. Sherlock motioned him away with a small wave of the hand but John didn't stray very far. Sherlock didn't mind him and he didn't see him any different than anyone else, which was great! John was ecstatic about it! However, the man needed to know that no everyone was as open minded, or indifferent, as he was. They would get him euthanized!

"Sebastian Wilkes is expecting me." Sherlock tapped on the desktop to catch the woman's attention. She browsed through her computer for a moment, though he eyes were firmly on John, before motioning them in the general direction of the man's office. John didn't make eye contact with anyone here, trying not to do anything to make them throw him out. Sherlock wouldn't allow that, hopefully, but he didn't want to test it. This was ridiculous, honestly. What did they really think was going to happen?

The office was empty and John quietly did a little sniffing as they waited. He got a good whiff of a scent cocktail. This man was clearly a traveler and people were in and out of the office constantly. Sherlock gave him a pat on the head and John perked up a little, expecting the man to want something. He didn't. Was that- a comforting pat?

"Ah, Sherlock. I'm glad you could make it." The man, Wilkes, smiled a white toothed smile. John peeked his smaller form from behind his taller owner and the man's smile fell almost instantly. Sherlock shook his hand and John politely kept his own behind his back.

"This is my colleague, John Watson."

"Pet," John corrected swiftly, not wanting to test Wilkes' standing on equality. The man clearly was trying not to sneer. It wasn't like he was going to bite him for no reason. That seemed to be the usual assumption.

"Leave it to Sherlock to befriend a mutt," Wilkes scoffed passive-aggressively as he made a small half circle to his chair. He sat and motioned Sherlock to the chair across from him. Sherlock sat and motioned the dog into the other seat. He didn't care whether or not Wilkes actually wanted John in his chair. Though he wanted to refuse, Wilkes stared at him with a challenging look and John changed his mind. He seated himself comfortingly and wrapped his blond tail around his waist as to not sit on it.

"I knew you were a freak back then," the man continued on stupidly. John didn't know Sherlock all that well. In fact, he knew next to nothing about the man besides some minor details not worth a cent, but regardless of that, Sherlock had saved him. He was nice to him. He was his friend and John didn't like people bad-talking his friends.

"I remember how we use come down for breakfast and you'd always know who we'd been shagging."

"Is it cold up there on your high horse?" the retriever questioned casually, mimicking the banker's diffident assaults. Wilkes glared at him suddenly, but Sherlock's smirk provided John with enough wiggle room to keep proud.

"_Mister_Wilkes," he tacked on with dripping sarcasm.

"Cute," Wilkes sneered back at him.

"Nice, John," Sherlock instructed, but there wasn't any command in the tone. John wasn't sure if he actually meant it. "Sebastian is clearly tired after his two trips around the world in only one month," he commented nonchalantly. Wilkes turned his eyes back to his colleague with a slightly more amused look.

"This old trick." Wilkes smirked again.

"It's not a trick," Sherlock informed him indignantly. John was suddenly curious about this not-trick even if he didn't like the idea of 'tricks'.

"Alright. I'll bite. How did you know that?" Sebastian offered up unpleasantly. When Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, however, he was cut off. "Some mud on my shoes? Do I have a ketchup spot on my tie that you can only buy in Manhattan?" he suggested. John wasn't sure how Sherlock knew what he did, but he hoped to god that wasn't how if not only to piss Wilkes off. Sherlock gave him a painfully smug, but sour, smile.

"I was just speaking with your assistant. She told me," the detective assured him. John glanced toward his owner out of the corner of his eye curiously. When had that happened, exactly? Wilkes frowned bitterly at him. Thankfully, that was the end of that conversation. The banker turned his monitor around to show them, still clearly requiring Sherlock's help despite his 'unruly' dog. John wasn't too good on the technical part of things. He couldn't smell it so he couldn't grasp it completely. The security video started out with an empty room, then suddenly jumped to have been spray painted.

"The tape was altered," Wilkes explained, playing it back again for Sherlock to see for a second time. "In five minutes, someone broke in, spray painted that, and left this." He opened one of the drawers of his desk and placed a yellow collar on the desk. John swallowed thickly and moistened his lips. Sherlock must have noticed, but he didn't say anything just yet.

"I'm guessing none of the doors were opened," Sherlock questioned like an IT asking if 'it's plugged in'.

"None of them. I want you to figure out how they got in so we can patch up our security system." Wilkes sat back in his chair, fingers pressed to the leather rest. Sherlock seemed less interested in that problem and more curious about the symbols and collar. Whatever got the job done. The banker slipped a cheque across his desk.

"There'll be more when the job is finished," he promised seductively.

"I don't need incentive," Sherlock sniffed back, taking the collar and swiftly abandoning the room. John hesitated a moment, spotting the number on the cheque. That was a big number. He was right; Sherlock was wealthier than he was leading on to be. The dog picked up the forgotten piece of paper without fear.

"I'll just hold on to this." The retriever pocketed it despite the suspicious stare.

"John!" Sherlock called and his dog hurried to catch up with him. They were led into the vandalized office and Sherlock went about doing his detective work. Though he wasn't told to, John did a little sniffing around of his own. That was why he was taken out of the pound, after all, he might as well give his new owner a good reason to feed him. The room smelled mostly of spray paint and it made the dog wrinkle his nose in discomfort. That was terrible. Whoever the office belonged to came in and out of the country a lot and he brought things with him. John caught foreign whiffs all over the office that came from all over the globe. He did, however, spot something he found off. The woman at the desk. She was _wearing _a priceless piece of ancient Chinese history. Healthy humans were so bizarre. When he finished, John watched curiously as Sherlock buzzed about the floor, appearing and disappearing behind posts, cubicles, and finally returning to the vandalized office with a strip of paper.

Sherlock murmured something to himself and John perked his ears up. His owner's attention was on him with a searching expression. John folded his ears down again as he was approached with long, gliding strides.

"You looked distressed when you saw the collar. Why?"

"We're not animals. They don't use collars on us except for in transporting," John held his wrist up to be level with his neck, showing Sherlock where he would have been pinned if necessary. As a doctor, he was only bound during injections given by the Trainers. Infected were more likely to bite the Trainers purely because the Trainers were horrible people.

"Or punishment," he went on with a grimace.

"Yellow is for _escapees_," with help, some Infected could elude the military for years. When they were caught they were immediately brought to serve and kept bound to induce submission.

"_Runaways_," the Infected that manage to escape with the intention of returning to service. Usually they were younger and just wanted to see their families again. Other times they would find Infected in other stations and escape to meet up with them for assorted reasons. Or on rare occasions, an Infected may have met a Healthy and attempt to communicate with them.

"And _abandoners_." those that manage to escape and have no desire to return. They would be bound for years and even restricted completely.

"And you root for them." Sherlock summed up the dog's displeased face easily. John frowned at him.

"You want an answer, even if it's not a question, but there's no simple answer. Of course I want them to be free. We all want to be free. But the Infected have become a necessary part of society. Whether we like the Healthy or not, we have to defend our homeland." The Golden Retriever tried his best to explain. He wasn't sure if Sherlock would comprehend it, though, either side of it. The man looked him over again, but was satisfied with the answer.

"Then VanCoon was one of these three." He murmured. VanCoon must have been who the signs were for.

"Not necessarily." John interrupted. "Yellow collars are also used by the Healthy as a sign of warning. A," the retriever paused, as if the next word would make him physically sick. "_Pet_with a yellow collar could simply be their favorite color or more likely, a sign that they have served and could potentially be dangerous. The Healthy aren't as strict on following patterns. If anyone else were to have- _adopted_ me," he strained bitterly. "I'd likely adorn a yellow collar." Sherlock gave a small grasp to the collar in his hand. John glared at him angrily, daring him to even think about it. If he was, he didn't verbalize it. Instead, Sherlock turned pale blue eyes back to the spray painted symbols.

"Are these part of your culture, too?" Culture? John wanted to correct him and snap at him for the accusation, but thought better than it. It wasn't important. He shook his head minutely.

"No. I don't know anything about these. Negative infinity. Minus many. I apologise. I don't know. I'm going to guess that VanCoon did, though, which is why he hasn't been here in days. Perhaps we should find him?" John suggested intelligently. Sherlock smiled a little, which might as well have been a compliment to the dog.

"Those are good guesses," Sherlock stated curiously.

"I'm not an animal," John reminded him. "I'm just as educated as any of your friends in the Yard," he scoffed.

"Please," the man sniffed pompously. "Don't sell yourself short by comparing yourself to them." John's tail wagged against his will, as it was getting very prone to doing. He couldn't have picked a better flatmate if he had been given choice. They left the bank and hailed a cab with little difficulty.

"Hey," John murmured with returning curiosity. "How did you know that he'd just returned from two trips around the world?" He hadn't spoken to Wilkes' assistant, so it begged to ask, how Sherlock put that together so easily. Sherlock smirked.

"Did you see his watch?" he countered. The dog hadn't exactly been interested in his accessories but he wasn't given a moment to think about it. "The time was right, but the date was wrong. Off by two days." How could he have possibly seen that? Even John couldn't have seen that and his eyes were far better than any healthy's. "So he crosses the international date line twice."

"Fantastic," John breathed out affectionately, making Sherlock straighten his scarf happily. "And one month?"

"His watch has only been on the market one month." Sherlock shrugged casually. John smiled generously, still completely overwhelmed and impossibly impressed by his new owner's ability to see and connect the smallest details. His blond fluff of a tail swished calmy and Sherlock patted his shoulder. Which was nice.

VanCoon's flat was easy to locate, if not only because of the group of Yarders already gathered outside. John placed his nose out the window of the cab, lips pursed firmly. There was a dead man in there. Sherlock didn't bother with getting out to speak with anyone. With that line of questioning gone, they returned home.

Unfortunately, their flat wasn't much different. John was out of the cab in an instant and into his new home with Sherlock on his heels. He could smell them from outside! What were they doing? They couldn't just help themselves in like that! The retriever pinned his ears back and flagged his tail, hurrying past Mrs. Hudson and into the building. Lestrade had made himself rather comfortable in the livingroom.

"What are you doing, Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded before John could find his own words. This was insane! He didn't like this! He didn't like it at all! The dog anxiously pulled at his ears, watching the group from the Yard tear through the flat.

"Drugs bust." Lestrade shrugged as though it were an everyday occurrence.

"Drugs?" John whined in disbelief when his owner had suddenly gone quiet. "You can't be serious! You think there are drugs here! Sherlock?" He was more stressed out than angry, but the rest of his little team made it obvious that they didn't like him yelling. They weren't going to like him biting them in a minute, either.

"John," Sherlock said dismissively. John turned to him sharply.

"What?" he said a little quieter. "You? No." Sherlock did not seem to be the type to take any kind of drug. That and John would have been able to smell it in the flat. At least, he was sure he would have been able to. He hadn't exactly been looking for it. Sherlock gave him another dismissive look, this one telling him to drop the subject while simultaneously assuring John that there was water behind their search. John angrily tucked his tail between his legs, feeling a little betrayed and incredibly pissed off.

"I'm clean," Sherlock huffed sharply. Lestrade eyed him dangerously.

"Is that so?" the DI accused, giving him a clear chance to confess.

"Yes," the taller man hissed without worry. His confidence didn't fade when Lestrade picked up the little medicine box and nonchalantly opened it up. Sherlock did seem a little lost for a split second. John wasn't.

"That's not what this says, Sherlock," Lestrade murmured disappointedly, plucking one of the needles out.

"I don't know where that came from," the detective murmured, less apprehensively.

"So this isn't yours is what you want me to believe?"

"It's not. Its mine," John barked roughly, snatching his little box from the man. The whole flat went a little quiet and the retriever quietly counted up what was in the box to assure they hadn't stolen or lost anything.

"Don't cover up for him, John," Lestrade warned, reaching out a hand to the dog. John skidded away awkwardly, baring his teeth in a clear sign that he was in no mood to be touched.

"Don't touch me," John warned, satisfied that nothing in his box had been touched or ruined. "These aren't drugs, you- you- God, you _Pristies_." There was simply no other word to call the stupid humans rampaging through his home other than what they were.

"This is my medication. These pink pills are to prevent my instincts to breed when introduced to a mate in heat. The white ones are to prevent pseudo-rabies and to not scare the public. This shot is a relaxant for my joints to repair them. This shot is to prevent my natural aggression to protect things that are mine. These clear and blue capsules are for my muscles. The blue pills are to boost my immune system. And this shot is a behavioral suppressant to slow my reactions and instincts. Would you like the medical names for all of them? I can bloody give you those. Idobrolihem. Examilprozin. Safilaxprozin. Proefalihem. Lami-"

"I get it," the DI cut him off swiftly, rubbing his forehead with a firm finger. He seemed reluctant, but he motioned to Sherlock airily. "I'm sorry," he apologized unspecifically and unapologetically.

"John. I'm sorry. I didn't know." Lestrade nodded at him with much more sincerity. John puffed at him angrily. He'd better be sorry.

"If it's taking so many bloody drugs, maybe it shouldn't be in public with real people,' one of the DI's sniffer 'dogs' murmured under his breath. John heard him. His temper was already on high and he couldn't take anymore of this _abuse_.

"I'm sorry! It's clearly much more important for you to be safe from _me_. You know, instead of the other way around. I mean, I just _wanted _to be like this. I wanted it to be built into my instincts to procreate at every bloody chance. And I definitely wanted to have to take a liver destroying pill for something _I __don__'__t __even __have_. I don't get _rabies_. I am genetically immune to rabies. Do you even understand that? When I get a _common __cold_, I foam at the mouth because that's where the most germs gather. I _deeply __apologize _for taking a pill to _not _freak out the _real __people _of the _public_ over a _common __cold_." John was, incidentally, blocking the door with his tiny, currently very intimidating form and no one was stupid enough to try and go around him.

"And I'm just so, so sorry I have to _give__myself_a shot every day to repair my joints after years of abuse while _I __was __protecting __you __from __invading __forces_. And you _know _I'm very apologetic for controlling my possessiveness that the _army __trained __into __me_. If I weren't giving myself _this __shot_ everyday, I would be biting the fuck out of you for being anywhere near _my __things_ because that's what we did in the military. We fought _each __other_ to defend our things because that's what the Trainers _trained _us to do. I guess I don't actually have to take this one. This one's just to relieve the pain of having been _forced _into a four by six by seven cage. That's four feet wide, six feet tall, and seven feet long, by the way. It's _completely __unreasonable _that I would be in _agony _after sitting in the _same __position __for __six _to _eight __hour __intervals_. But I am sorry for this one. I know how bloody _unfair _it is for me to want to be healthy of your primitive, pristy diseases. You know, your _mutated_ diseases that could possibly _lame_, _blind__, __deafen__, _or, in a rare seventy percent of cases, _put __me __in __a __bloody __coma_. Oh, but this shot I'm the _most __sorry _for. This one slows my reactions so I won't react how I would if I were still serving and _maim __you _on _accident _if you so much as _sneezed _incorrectly in my direction. So, so sorry about that one. Especially now since my _instincts _are telling me to fucking kill you for being in my home uninvited." John bristled angrily, but held his ground even as the Healthy humans began to slowly back away from him all save Sherlock. His bite was so much worse than his bark and they were getting very close to finding out first hand.

"So if I wasn't clear. _I __am __painfully __sorry __that __I _have _to __take __so __many __drugs_. It's clearly doing more harm than good and it's so difficult for _you _to have to put up with day to day. Please, _please_, let me know if there's any way I could make this any more convenient for _you__._" The retriever puffed his chest out, shaking his tail angrily, but otherwise finished with his flood of aggression. For a few moments, everything was quiet. That felt great, but it didn't take John long to realize that he'd gone a little far and there was a whole room of people that could easily get him taken back to the pound for it; Sherlock be damned.

"Okay. Calm down, John," the DI said soothingly, suddenly the dog's friend again. John put his ears back submissively.

"I'm calm," he murmured, slowly waving his tail and taking an awkward step towards Sherlock for protection. He showed his teeth a little, but it wasn't aggressive. Lestrade turned to the offending Healthy human with a pointed nod in John's direction.

"Anderson," he insisted. He seemed to be suggesting that the man apologise and quickly, but John could care less about being apologised to. It wasn't like he would actually mean it, if he was even coherent enough after being scared half to death.

"Don't bother," Sherlock cut in sharply. "Just leave," he instructed forcefully, bitterness seeping into every word. That was when John got a good, heavy smell of a very specific scent. All at once, he was back on the offensive; tail up and eas forward. He sniffed at the DI pointedly, cautiously getting as close as he felt safe.

"You were with Sherlock's brother. Today. You were with him today. Is that why you came here?" John crinkled his nose back, not just yet hostile but quickly on his way to being. Lestrade put his hands up defensively.

"Now wait. That's not the only reason. Mycroft said he was worried about Sherlock because he was being so quiet lately. Suddenly deciding to take you on as a flatmate isn't exactly Sherlock behavior, either. We just wanted to be sure. I didn't want to at first, but he said Sherlock had purchased some really obscure drugs off the internet and just wanted to make sure he wasn't up to anything illegal," the man explained. John folded his ears down, staring at Lestrade with a look of utter disbelief.

"And you believed that? Mycroft 'knows what they do to' people like me. If he's anything like Sherlock, he knows what I need to take and the names of them. Why would he send you to check-" Because he wanted to prove that he was dangerous. John flinched his eyes closed and pressed his hands to his face. That was exactly what he did and now Mycroft had exactly what he needed to take him away. John hobbled back a step towards the door.

"I-" he began anxiously. "It's half six, I need to go medicate myself." The dog excused himself in a hurry and darted out of the room and up the stairs with his little box in hand. Clearly his aggression wasn't completely under control. John didn't want to be paranoid, but he wouldn't exactly put it past someone like Mycroft to try and sabotage him. This was all completely unnecessary. He wasn't dangerous! He couldn't get upset when someone intruded in on his flat and rummages through his things?

John didn't want to think about it. He stripped down to his pants, glad to be in the safety of his own room, and quietly prepped for relatively painless treatments. He didn't feel the need to actually tell Sherlock about the number of medications he had to take, he would have thought the man already knew simply from the cost, but on the other hand it made sense that Sherlock didn't know due to the lack of attention he seemed to pay toward their finances, or John in general.

He started with the pills, as he always did, taking them one by one each with a swallow of bottled water. John could hear the little group leaving downstairs and he sighed a deep, depressed sigh. He must have done something personal to the older Holmes and he just didn't remember. That was the only reason the man would want to ruin him this badly. As he cleaned the track marks from his previous once a day injections, his door silently and slowly opened. Sherlock helped himself in and John knew everyone was gone.

Sherlock didn't say anything to him, but he looked inconvenienced as he approached the bed and handled the syringe. John instantly growled, alerting the man that he didn't like people like Sherlock near him with needles. Then he remembered it was Sherlock and calmed himself down. His owner paid him little attention, as he usually did. Sherlock simply wasn't intimidated or scared of him. He had no reason to be afraid of him just like other people had every reason to. He watched the man skillfully press the needle into one of the jars and filled it to a precise amount that, of course, he knew. As carefully as he conducted one of his experiments, Sherlock pressed the needle into his dog's back, just shy of his shoulder blade. There was a serious of marks spread over the area where John had clearly struggled to reach behind him, even hitting his bone a few times. After a few more injections of this, his joints would be near perfect again and he would have on less medication to take.

Sherlock repeated the process with the second jar and pressed the needle into the small cluster of marks on the inside of John's upper arm. The retriever moved to make it easier for him, inwardly thankful for the help. Sherlock wasn't completely neglectful, John was discovering. He didn't shop, or clean, and ignored John's discomfort when approaching people who would obviously dislike him, but John considered this 'taking care' of him. The last one was injected into his thigh, which always proved to be a little more painful due to the remaining phantom pain. Sherlock properly disposed of the needle into the protective, biohazard sleeve, and replaced the syringe back where it belonged. The man absently stroked John behind the ears.

"Thank you," John whined softly.

"Hurry up. We still have a case to work," Sherlock answered as though that were his only reason for helping John do anything. The Infected knew that wasn't the case, no matter how cold Sherlock pretended to be.

"We need to go search VanCoon's flat. There must be clues to why he was targeted. If Dimmock didn't contaminate it already," Sherlock scoffed. John guessed he had a little chat with Lestrade before letting him leave. Knowing Sherlock, he used the situation to his advantage to open up the crime scene to them without any worry.

"Yeah." John agreed needlessly.

The retriever was right. Sherlock had used Lestrade's guilt to get them smoothly into the flat. DI Dimmock, who John disliked the moment the man decided he disliked John, wasn't happy about it, either.

"This was a suicide," Dimmock assured the consulting detective for the third time since they'd arrived. Sherlock was no closer to listening to him than before and continued his own examination of the body. John busied himself with sniffing around the flat. VanCoon was as much of a traveler as anyone else in the bank and like his office, certainly smelled of different places. He soap smelled like his assistant. John supposed they were seeing each other, but shook the thought away because Healthys were weird and that probably wasn't it. He trotted to meet back with Sherlock.

"Tell me exactly how a left handed man shoots himself on the right side of his head," Sherlock demanded. "Requires quite a bit of contortionism." He made a show of holding a pretend gun and trying to aim at the same angle VanCoon had apparently shot himself at.

"Because he's not left handed," Dimmock answered sharply. Sherlock rolled his eyes pointedly and shot a childish 'he's joking right?' look at his dog. John watched his owner work while he indiscreetly tried to smell the body.

"The tea stains from where he puts his mug down on the left side of his chair. Pad and paper on the left side of the phone so he could take notes with his left hand. All of his favorite, expensive suits on the left side of his wardrobe because he opens it with his left." As Sherlock explained his findings, and Dimmock supported an ever souring frown, John pinpointed the scent that faintly filled the flat and the office. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it then either.

"Do I need to go on?" Sherlock questioned John in exasperation.

"I think he's got it," the blond assured him with a small glance. Sherlock only shrugged, though.

"Only one more," he promised anyways. "The butter on the knife in the kitchen is on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. Conclusion; someone broke into his flat and murdered him."

"Alright. Fine, he's left handed, but that's not exactly hard evidence for murder," Dimmock snipped roughly. "If he didn't shoot himself, what about the gun?"

"He was waiting for his killer."

"And the bullet?"

"Went out the open window," Sherlock answered without skipping a beat. Dimmock stared at him angrily. John took another step towards the bed, not as worried about being seen now. There was something there, he just knew it.

"Oh. Come on. What are the chances of that?" the DI demanded, casting a look at the body and the advancing dog. "Hey! Get away from there!"

"Sherlock," John said slowly and carefully. "VanCoon was an Infected. A raccoon specifically. Type zero. He hid it well," John continued on, now with both Sherlock's and Dimmock's attention firmly on him. If his only use was his nose, he was going to be as helpful as possible with it.

"They don't sell neutralizers like this to the public. It's illegal to be more specific. The only reason I can smell him now is because he hasn't used it in a couple days. This is professional, Sherlock. I can safely say he's never served and the bank has no idea." After treating John the way they did, it was impossible that VanCoon would have still been working if they knew what he was, no matter how human he looked. Sherlock looked over the body again, looking for some physical sign to John's scent. If he found one, he kept it to himself. Instead, the man took a swift pace out of the flat, patting his hip to call John along.

"Where are we going now, then?" John murmured once they were out of earshot of the Yarders.

"To find out what Sebastian knew about this."

o-o-o

Sorry for the wait. I'm keeping my beta flooded with too much stuff.  
I was wondering if anyone would be interested in a tumblr for this AU (I've really fallen in love with it) where I'd answer questions and probably post little things like vocabulary and bits of information and explanations that don't make it into the story (because I love answering questions).


	4. Sherlock Holmes and the Blind Mutt

Bring Me Back A Dog

"_How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg_" Abraham Lincoln

Chapter Two: The Blind Mutt  
Part Three: Sherlock Holmes

Once again, Sherlock managed to drag him into a part of town that frowned upon having him in close proximity to their person or belongings. That, of course, included their restaurants. John tried his best to remain outside while Sherlock did his business indoors, but the man simply wouldn't allow him. He grabbed the dog by his tags and practically dragged him inside. John had no doubt he would have been dragged if he hadn't reluctantly went along.

"Sir," the hostess demand instantly. John pulled back a little more. "We don't allow pets," she insisted firmly. Sherlock ignored her and continued his way into the fancy little sushi cafe with his retriever in tow. The woman clearly had no idea what to do and John tried not to intimidate her. It wasn't like he was here to bite everyone and shed fur in their food. He had groomed himself perfectly, thank you very much, and wouldn't be shedding anywhere anytime soon.

"Sebastian," Sherlock caught his employer's attention at once as well as his collection of guests. John thought he was hiding well behind the man. "We need to talk."

"Can this wait?" The banker glanced up to them, giving John only the smallest of glances before focusing on his little worker for hire. Sherlock folded his hands behind his back casually.

"Van Coon is dead," he gladly put out in the open, causing all of Wilkes' little buddies to look to Sherlock in mild horror and disbelief. Wilkes stopped what he was doing, but his hesitation was clear and Sherlock gave him the quick shove so he could make up his mind. "No? He was an Infected, if that helps. What was it John? Raccoon?"

"Mhm. Raccoon," John gladly agreed, though he knew Sherlock hadn't really forgotten. Wilkes put his fork down quickly and ever so calmly wiped his face off. He stood, nodded his apologizes to his little group of healthy and hurried off. Sherlock followed and naturally John was on his owner's heels. Heaven forbid the man be caught outside in the dark, the empty loo was apparently perfectly fine for the healthy to talk in. John wasn't sure why he was surprised. Healthy were weird.

"Van Coon wasn't one of- him." Wilkes looked over John pointedly. John ignored him with a clench of his hand. There was no point in getting overly upset now. He would just have to get used to the idea that a lot of people wouldn't like him. He couldn't yell at them all, now could he? Sherlock glanced over his Golden Retriever curiously.

"Of course not. He was a raccoon. John's a canine," Sherlock corrected him almost teasingly. John was still getting use to the man's minute differences in expressions. Wilkes glared at him. Of course that wasn't what he meant, but they all knew he didn't have to verbalize that. The bitter man leaned against the sink, arms crossed over his chest in a way that wouldn't wrinkle his precious suit.

"We get all of our employees thoroughly checked out. He wasn't."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but your background checks are mediocre at best. A well trained smuggler could easily set up an entire web of lies without any problem and if they've been working it longer, it's easier. Neutralizers prevent them from being smelled, computer experts prevent them from being found, surgery keeps them from being seen, and forgeries get them in anywhere. Infected are very stubborn in situations like this. There's only one sure-fire way to prevent something like this from happening again," John assured him, catching the man's attention reluctantly, but easily. The healthy always wanted to listen when they thought the Infected would be useful. That wasn't anything new, unfortunately.

"And what would that be, dare I ask?"

"You don't," Sherlock answered smoothly. The only way to keep Infected out was to have another Infected sniff them out and not many of them were too fond of giving one another up. People still tried, but it was useless. Wilkes let out an irritated noise, one that showed how much he disagreed, and placed a few fingers over his eyes.

"This needs to stay between us. People can't know I hired one of those things," he demanded. Sherlock could clearly care less. John, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as satisfied. The dog stared him down firmly.

"I guess you wouldn't want people to know you donated to Infected Shelters, either."

"I don't."

"Too bad. I guess I'll just have to tell people you help out in different ways. I mean, at least the newspapers will talk to me," John murmured nonchalantly. Wilkes glowered at him. It was amusing to the Golden Retriever that the man thought that was a good idea.

"That's blackmail," Wilkes demanded, instantly looking towards Sherlock as if the taller man would do something about his unruly pet. Sure enough, the detective wasn't going to do anything near that. In fact, he appeared to be amused by the conversation; though John was probably the only one that could tell with Sherlock's signature 'bored' expression. However, if he really was bored, he would have already been long gone. John's well being certainly wasn't keeping him here.

"That's interesting. You're discriminant. And rude, by the way," the little blond man scoffed back, flagging his tail up. Wilkes ground his teeth, John could hear it, but made the wise decision and understood that John didn't bluff.

"Fine," the banker ground out reluctantly. John happily waved his tail behind him.

"It's getting late, Sherlock. I think we should go."

"Agreed, John."

o-o-o-o

John stayed up with Sherlock for as long as he could, but it was slow, dull work. Sherlock clearly knew what he was doing without the retriever's help, but even so, the older dog felt bad sleeping while he was working. Eventually, he fell asleep on the floor, stretched out on the cool wood on his belly with his face tucked into the nook of his arm. When he awoke, Sherlock was gone. John noticed almost instantly and scampered to his feet to the point of nearly knocking himself to the floor again.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson gasped suddenly, covering her heart with a firm hand. She chuckled softly, approaching him on the floor and gently patting his head. "You startled me dear."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, nuzzling his head against her hand. John didn't like to be petted, not because it was uncomfortable, but because he wasn't actually a pet. When Mrs. Hudson did it, though, he just couldn't say no. He supposed he was just a big softy in the end.

"Why were you on the floor, sweetie?"

"I- uh- Sherlock," John murmured through a muffled yawn that hid his teeth under his lips. He pushed himself up to his feet, flexing his back and shoulders minutely to shake off the soreness.

"Sherlock went out this morning. Something about a journalist I think," the little landlord assured him as she returned to the table to bring him a biscuit that John happily accepted. He glanced around the empty flat a little, obviously a little unsure of what to do with himself now. He supposed Sherlock didn't need his help with many things.

"Thank you," he said quietly, watching her leave the flat for her own downstairs. John showered and shaved if only to waste away some time. Once he was dressed, which was mostly just so he could follow Sherlock in case he came back needing the dog, John decided that he would go out for some air. The last time he'd gone shopping on his own, no one had bothered him, so he tugged his tags to the outside of his shirt, left a note for Sherlock where the man couldn't possibly miss it, and wandered out onto the street.

Fortunately, he was right. The people around here didn't bother him at all. John almost felt confident in such a setting. A few people might have spared him an extra glance but the vivid green rubber around his tags seemed to sooth their worries. They might not all know what it meant exactly, but it was clearly a good sign. Of course, that didn't solve his money problem. Hopefully he wouldn't have to sponge off of Sherlock for the rest of his life.

"Hello again." The familiar voice peeked out through the crowd and John turned curiously to it. It was the woman from the shopping mall; the one with the little girl. He approached her cautiously, smiling a greeting.

"Hello," John responded delicately with two shakes of the tail.

"I don't think I got your name the other day," she reminded him pointedly. The poor dog nearly missed the lead on, however. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the healthy didn't introduce themselves or demand introductions. She was right, though, she didn't know his name and he hadn't the least idea what her's was. The brunette woman nodded to him suggestively and John found himself fumbling to grab at his tags.

"Uh. John Watson." And then he forgot what breed he was. Fortunately, it didn't make much of a difference in normal life. She only smiled as if he hadn't done anything wrong and held out her hand.

"Sarah Sawyer." She greeted him and he shook her hand limply. He couldn't help it. She was pretty and she was being nice to him. John had no idea what to do. It hadn't occurred to him until this instant that he hadn't flirted with a female since he was an awkward teenager. He hadn't wanted to flirt with anyone since he was an awkward teenager.

"So what are you doing around here, John?"

"Oh." John looked around a little, not having come with an original intent. "Looking for a job, I guess," he admitted after a moment. "If I could find someone that would hire someone like me."

"Well, do you have any skills?" Sarah clearly had something to offer, otherwise she wouldn't be interested in his abilities. So far, however, he wasn't sure what that offer was. At the moment, it didn't matter too much. He would take whatever job that someone would offer him.

"I'm a doctor if you'd believe that. A surgeon." The dog sighed disappointedly. He'd worked so hard for it, too. It was discouraging to know his hard work attributed to very little in the real world. Perhaps the military hadn't been that bad after all? He had food, water, shelter, and meaning. So far, Sherlock was terrible at shopping, there was only water because Mrs. Hudson constantly badgered Sherlock for rent, and his meaning came and went with Sherlock. At least he had shelter?

"Are you?" She sounded surprised, not that John was surprised about that.

"Yeah," he reassured her needlessly.

"That's brilliant." Sarah 'complemented'. John knew he shouldn't feel offended, but like most times; he wasn't a bloody dog. He forced a small smile, knowing she meant well overall. She was being nice to him, what more could he ask for?

"Thank you."

"This is a huge coincident, but we're looking for a tempt at the clinic I work at. You should have a look," she offered. John knew his tail was wagging, but there wasn't a lot he could do about it. Was she serious? She looked pretty serious. Not that cruel healthys were unusual to anyone, but surely such a nice lady wasn't trying to tease him.

"Y-yeah," he agreed casually. "I'll do that, thank you." Hiring him was a whole other story, but if she was offering, maybe it was an Infected friendly clinic. That would be fantastic. John gave a gentle nod of the head, giving her a proper goodbye. However, as he began to depart, she stopped him again.

"Oh. John," Sarah said gently, catching his attention again. "Are you doing anything later?" John didn't understand. He tried to prep an answer, but he wasn't completely sure what she was asking. He'd most likely be helping Sherlock later, depending on what the man was busy doing at the moment, but that didn't seem like what she was asking.

"Sorry. I- keep forgetting you're kind of new at this. I'm asking you if you'd like to- go on a date- with me?" And now she was asking him on a date. John didn't respond right away. He was too busy trying to decide if he wanted to wake up now or later. The answer was pretty obvious, he thought.

"Oh. Yeah! I'd- Uh." He calmed himself down, quickly realizing he was getting just a little too excited. "I'd like that, Sarah." John smiled.

"Great! Here, I'll give you my number."

John wasn't completely clear on what happened after that. He assumed he had walked home in a happy daze with his tail swishing behind him. He had a date. He had a date and a very high possibility of getting a job he was actually trained for. It was all so very surreal. Maybe things really had changed since he'd been a pup. Sherlock brought him back to reality in a brutal snap.

"Sherlock?" He was clearly home now, though John was now very worried as to where he had been. There was a scent hovering around him that John didn't like at all. He approached the man wearily, and began to sniff at him with no reserve, sticking his nose in Sherlock's hair, neck, arms, and side antsily. It was faint on his person, but John could smell it clear as day.

"John?" Sherlock didn't move very much, but he wasn't exactly enjoying the treatment. John didn't care. He abandoned his owner and followed the smell right to his coat, nosing it where it hung on the rack with a wrinkle in the his bridge of his nose. He got a clear whiff of the scent and instantly placed it.

"You were with a rottweiler." John couldn't help but to sound accusing. A very affectionate rottweiler by the smell of things! Sherlock stared at him curiously. Of course he hadn't been with another dog on purpose, John told himself quickly. Sherlock probably wouldn't have even noticed.

"Lukis," Sherlock murmured, turning back to the bag he was handling.

"Who?" John tucked his tail between his legs. He was very confused, not that he expected that to be unusual around Sherlock, and assumed he had missed something while he was asleep. Sherlock unbagged the journal and John fled back several steps. That was terrible! What on earth was Sherlock doing with that!

"He's a journalist. Quite obviously an Infected as well," Sherlock stated, though it was entirely possible he wasn't speaking to John.

"Okay! I get it! Put that thing away!" John barked, clamping a hand over his nose. He didn't want to smell that!

"This?" Being as considerate as he ever was, Sherlock waved the journal before John's face and nose, causing the dog to get more of the whiff than he really wanted to. John skittered back further, his back hitting the coat rack and nearly tripping him.

"Yes that! That's disgusting!" As if Sherlock didn't already know that purely from John's reaction. Sherlock filed his thumb along the pages, fluttering them with one long stroke and John darted into the kitchen for cover. He shoved the window open and gladly stuck his nose out to breath fresh air. He sucked in breath before glancing back to his owner. Sherlock took a smell for himself, which John really wished he wouldn't do, but his healthy nose noticed nothing different.

"Just- please, put it down Sherlock. Put it back in the bag, actually," John insisted loudly, carefully skidding around him and retrieving the bag from the table. He didn't want to touch it! He held the bag out to Sherlock, standing as far away as he could without being out of reach. Much to his pleasure, Sherlock actually did as he was told and dropped the book back into its plastic case, sealing it up and allowing the dog a breath of relief.

"Why did you pick it up?" the dog whined, though his whole body language screamed out in relief. Sherlock examined him with cold, researching eyes, then the bagged book. He'd clearly made some sort of connection and John hoped no explanation would be necessary.

"It's important evidence. Why did you react like that?" Sherlock questioned with the tone that suggestion he already knew and simply wanted reassurance. John fidgeted slightly. Despite everything so far, it was still painfully awkward to explain stuff like this to a Healthy who would likely not understand at all. Sherlock of all people would probably understand, but not how he was supposed to.

"I- just- Please keep it in the bag, Sherlock," John begged. Oh god, he was going to have to explain wasn't he?

"It's an important piece of evidence, John," Sherlock said again, more irritated this time. John tucked his tail between his legs unhappily. Well he was just being unreasonable now.

"You can't smell what I smell," John snipped back.

"What do you smell?"

"It's not pleasant, I promise you," huffed the dog. "Just pure male scent, it's gross and unsanitary."

"Is it overwhelming?" Sherlock mused on. John had to assume he wasn't listening to a word he'd said.

"Only a little," John answered sarcastically, brave enough to remove his hand from over his face. The smell was still there, but fortunately it was fainter now. He'd never be able to get the smell completely out of the flat, or off Sherlock, now. He'd have to buy bleach and neutralizers and everything. Surely Sherlock wouldn't be doing stuff like this often.

"What else did you smell" It was like Sherlock wasn't listening to him at all!

"Do you know what scenting is, Sherlock?" John puffed himself out, tail suddenly stiff and ears flattened.

"I am aware, yes," Sherlock sniffed back surprisingly. John didn't believe that at all.

"Then know it is not pleasant whatsoever for me." Even though John was sure Sherlock would have realized that already.

"I also know you have one of the strongest noses among your species."

"It doesn't work like that."

"No. You don't want it to."

"What do you want me to tell you?" snapped John.

"What else did you smell on the book," Sherlock persisted on.

"Okay! Fine!" John flinched his eyes closed, trying to focus on the scent he had gotten more than his wanted amount of. He tried to think, unwilling to take it out of the bag again for any reason. "Ink. Paper. Um, binding glue. Things usually found in journals," he sighed in exasperation.

"And libraries."


	5. Badisso Blind Mutt

Bring Me Back A Dog

"_Whoever said you can't buy happiness forgot about little puppies_." -Gene Hill

Chapter Two: The Blind Mutt

Part Four: Badisso

Libraries, of course, _libraries_. To be fair, John had never actually been in a library to know what they smelled like off hand. He had been near libraries and, given enough information, he would probably know how to find a library from his nose alone, but they weren't exactly a luxury of the army. As a doctor, John had been around many, many books, but that was still no library. Of course, 'library' also wasn't specific in any way. Furthermore, it was obvious they couldn't just go after every library and hope for a hit.

John would have assumed that Sherlock would have already known where they were going and, though he didn't know it yet, he was right. As soon as they stepped out of the flat, which John was more than happy with considering the disgusting rottweiler scent in his nose, Sherlock spoke to him. Technically, it was a command but Sherlock was incapable of pulling off a proper commanding tone.

"Badisso."

The command both startled and excited John. He stiffened mildly, though his golden ears were immediately alert and his tail flagged in an eagerness he couldn't help even if he wanted to. He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to, but it was easier for him to say he did. Any chance to use his nose properly was a great day for John. His nose was a natural asset, not a military trained tool, and while it had been fine tuned to the key of biscuits, John would never hate using his nose. All the same, the command leaving Sherlock's mouth of all things, brought on immediate confusion.

Where had Sherlock even learned that word? Furthermore, John was not a field soldier, and Sherlock was not his unit's handler, so by no means was John going to find it natural to follow the command. Not without incentive, anyways. Clearly Sherlock paid more attention to him than John had originally thought for he unpocketed a biscuit and that, paired with John's trust for the man, was enough to dismiss his caution.

John skittered two steps forward, glancing back to Sherlock with beige eyes curiously. Sherlock waved the biscuit at him, edging him on without another word. With that, John took off swiftly on his feet. Sherlock followed close behind, but the healthy wasn't nearly as quick as John was. John wanted that biscuit. He would follow the scent all over London if he had to and he could. He had to stop occasionally to allow Sherlock to catch up. To John's surprise, he was actually much more fit than assumed. Perhaps, John thought absently, he should stop assuming things of Sherlock.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much of the library scent to go off of, but there was so much of Lukis to scent out. Lukis had been to the library, the library had Lukis' scent in it; easy. John had to be careful of the path he chose to take, of course, not wanting to run into anyone that would harass him or be afraid of him. It brought them into a little Chinese town where there were quite a few other Infected about and thus his presence was nothing new. There wasn't a library here, but John was going to follow his nose just like he was supposed to.

John slowed his pace suddenly, both allowing Sherlock to catch up and being distracted by his common sense. He made a u-turn, swishing his nose about and causing some of the street walkers to be unnerved. John ignored them without any effort. He was too focused to care what anyone thought right now; he was working. A final deep breath in made him halt altogether outside of a shop's door. John looked back to Sherlock again, more than aware that this wasn't a library, but also far too suspicious to continue on.

"Does Lukis live here?" he asked Sherlock curiously. As an answer, Sherlock handed him the biscuit and wandered into the shop. John gladly accepted it and followed after him, nibbling on the treat with polite bites. Now he was curious as to what Sherlock was looking for if it wasn't the library. Then again, Sherlock probably inherited John's suspicion of the little shop and Lukis' time spent here. John sniffed around curiously. He could smell neutralizer. It could be Van Coon or it could be someone completely different. That was the problem with neutralizers.

"You want Lucky Cat?" the voice startled John and he quickly backed away from the shelf of cups. There was a woman behind the desk, blended perfectly well into the background of her own shop. John couldn't smell her at all. More neutralizers. He glanced back to Sherlock, who watched them sharply, before looking back to the older Infected woman.

"Your wife like. Ten pound, ten pound," she insisted. John moved slightly and her eyes naturally followed him, but he wasn't sure if she could see very well. She had to be a four or five at least to be able to camouflage herself so easily. She was also older and considering where she was, her lack of introduction, and lack of scent, she was likely an escapee and thus not immunized.

"Ah. N-no thank you," John assured her and she quietly melded back into her hiding spot. He kept his ears on her. With delicate fingers, he examined a few of her goods, searching for something that would cause Lukis to spend so much time here. Instead he found a very familiar set of symbols.

"Sherlock," he murmured softly, bringing his flatmate to his side with quick strides. John carefully maneuvered the bottom of the tiny tea cup to show Sherlock the symbols on the bottom of it; the very same symbols that had been spray painted in Van Coon's office. Sherlock gave him a calm pat on the shoulder. Yes; pats were good. John smiled politely at the Infected woman, a small nod and exchange of looks needing no words. Unless someone was directly in danger, John would not be giving her away to authorities any time soon. It was simply uncalled for. He followed Sherlock out of the shop again and watched the man sweep his eyes over the surrounding street.

"Let's have some lunch," Sherlock announced, leading John across the way to a little diner. John was alright with this. Now that food was mentioned, he was an awful bit of hungry after the run over here. This was a fairly nice place to be, in all honesty. They allowed John and Sherlock to sit without any hesitation. John suspected it was because there was an Infected in the kitchen. This one was clearly scented and collared, but no one seemed to be treating him like a pet.

"So?" John asked carefully, positive that Sherlock knew something by now. He did.

"Hang Zhou," Sherlock informed easily. "It's an ancient Chinese dialect mostly used by traders," he continued on as he pulled Van Coon's journal from his pocket. John wasn't sure when he came into his possession but he tried not to worry about it. "The symbols in Van Coon's office," he murmured, turning his mobile in his hand to show John the picture.

"That's a fifteen and a one. Lukis and Van Coon both met up at the Lucky Cat. They were probably smugglers. Van Coon travels a lot, Lukis was a journalist, it makes sense. I bet we'd find those symbols at the library, too," Sherlock explained. John followed easily, but he wasn't sure what any of it meant. A server placed each of their meals down an John swatted his tail happily behind him at the smell alone. However, before he could enjoy the waiter leaned in to whisper to John. Sherlock was instantly curious as to what was happening. While John had no desire to keep him out of the loop, he couldn't share quite yet.

"I'll be right back, Sherlock," John assured him at once, standing and making his way into the back to speak with the dog in the kitchen. They didn't know each other, but they didn't have to. The Chow based Infected had served in the military just like John and thus they were granted the universal language of understanding one another. Mostly the Chow just wanted to make sure that John wouldn't be reporting the elderly woman in the Lucky Cat and, of course, John assured him that he would do no such thing. There was more, though. After promising that he wasn't with the police, which John by now knew that they certainly were not, the Chow handled him a very interesting piece of information.

John knew better than to trust anyone blindly, but it was much easier to trust another Infected. Unlike humans who had natural discrepancies to one another for really no rational reason, Infected, regardless of where they came from, had unwittingly been brought together by the healthys. The breakdown of language barriers and universal disapproval of them as a 'species' was enough to cause any group of people to band together. Sherlock watched him carefully when he returned and John leaned to him to share his new discovery.

"He says that scentless Infected wander this street a lot. Nearly all of them go into the Lucky Cat, some with items and some without. You're right, they're smugglers, but I think there's more than that. I think it's an Infected base. They sell freedom for work. If Van Coon got his paperwork from here, it's safe to assume they are large and powerful, Sherlock. I think we should stay out of this," John insisted with a withheld whine. Sherlock scoffed. Of course they weren't going to stay out of this. John wasn't sure why he tried.

"Fine," John huffed, beginning on his food quickly. Knowing Sherlock, they wouldn't be here long and John wanted to get something in his belly before they went running again. "He doesn't know what fifteen-one means, nor he doesn't want anything more to do with us." For a few minutes, which was all John needed to get down a decent amount of food, Sherlock mulled over the new information. It wasn't much, but Sherlock was master of working with 'not much'. Then they were off again. Sherlock parted from the table without letting John know, making the dog scramble to catch up with him.

"When would you say it rained last?" he asked. John had to think about it for a moment.

"A few days," he answered. Sherlock plucked at a few pages of a wet phone book outside of a tiny looking flat. He rang the bell twice awaiting an answer and received none, but he did find a scrap of paper shoved between the door and frame. He handed it to John immediately, who sniffed it automatically before reading.

"Soo Lin? It's on the back of a museum pamphlet," John informed as Sherlock peeked in the mail drop. Why was he doing that? John wasn't comfortable with this at all. Sherlock was going to try to break in, he just knew it.

"Stay here," Sherlock instructed. He was breaking in. John tried not to whine as he listened to Sherlock go off. This was a bad idea. He glanced around carefully, making sure no one was watching too closely and there were no police around. This was a bad idea and illegal! Didn't Sherlock care what happened to him? Not that John was the one breaking in, but he should be stopping Sherlock. He listened closely to the man begin to move quietly about the flat, beginning to pace a little outside the door. To be honest, John would have felt a little better if Sherlock had left him in at least.

Something was wrong. All too suddenly, John's senses alerted him to something very, very wrong. He couldn't smell anyone else and surely Sherlock would have cried for help if he needed it, but all the same John just knew something had happened. John began to bark and bark loudly from the very back of his throat. Several people slowed as they passed by, and even people eating nearby stopped to view the commotion, but John didn't stop and he wouldn't stop until Sherlock assured him he was okay. He didn't have to bark for very long fortunately, for the front door opened up and Sherlock appeared again. Besides being slightly out of breath and disheveled, he was okay. John puffed his chest out.

"To the museum," Sherlock instructed despite John's weary look. "I'm fine," he promised. John also knew he was a liar. All the same, they headed in the direction of the museum first on the foot then by cab. John was not too happy about not being able to smell anything else on Sherlock. He'd clearly been attacked, John just didn't know by who. Someone who didn't want him dead, that was certain.

Upon arriving at the museum, John held back a little. He'd never actually been in a museum either, and at this point, he would have rather continued to the library. The library didn't have breakable things. He didn't think so, at least. Like usual, though, Sherlock knew when he was hesitant and grabbed onto his tags to drag him along. It was better this way for both of them. If Sherlock commanded him, it was too much like John was a pet, but by giving John the physical ability to pull away if he wanted to, there was a certain air of giving John a choice and choice was human.

"Hello," a young man greeted them politely. "Can I help you with something?"

"Are you Andy?" Sherlock showed the pamphlet they had, now that John thought about it, stolen. John leveled his nose. There was a distinctive absence of scent in the museum. It wasn't a neutralizer, though, no. It was a cover-up. Slowly, he approached the wall, leaving Sherlock's side to search.

"Uh," the man seemed unsure, but he clearly recognized the note. "That's for Soo Lin," he insisted, but his eyes watched John.

"Have you seen her?" Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes on 'Andy'. Andy hesitated a moment, glancing over his shoulder, back to John before turning his eyes to Sherlock.

"Not since she resigned," he sighed, peering across the way to a case of teapots. John's focus was purely on the scent now. Why use a cover-up when it was clearly easier to get a neutralizer? It didn't make any sense. Cover-ups only mixed with the natural scent, but didn't destroy it. Meaning that, with enough effort and a nose like John's, it was more than easy enough to hunt it out.

"I can show you her locker if you'd like," Andy informed.

"John," Sherlock called. At once, John's focus was broken. He glanced back to Sherlock, giving only a mild look at the spot he'd been sniffing out before following after the man. As they got closer to the back, John picked up on the scent again. It wasn't the same signature, but it was the same cover-up. He would have called it a mistake, but his nose didn't make mistakes. He was a doctor. If he made mistakes, people died. No, someone was using the same cover-up as to fool a less trained nose. That was clever. John quickly stuck himself to Sherlock's side.

"I smell spray paint," he informed quietly, casting his eyes on a covered item. "It's mixed with something else, though. No positive ID."

"Is something wrong?" Andy asked carefully. He didn't seem to be unnerved by John, but there was obvious some comfort to him. It was a museum, though, perhaps history taught them to be kinder to the Infected.

"What's that over there?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the very same item.

"Someone vandalized it in the middle of the night," Andy explained regretfully. "We still don't know how they got in."

"Can we see?" John insisted. Andy didn't seem to have a problem with helping them out. John couldn't say he was particularly good at his job. Then he quickly reminded himself that their jobs were incredibly different and there was likely no harm in what he was doing. He uncovered the statue and they recognised the symbols immediately. A thick yellow collar hung around the statue's throat.

"Thank you Andy," Sherlock gave him a short nod. John got a good whiff of it before departing the museum. Once outside he turned to Sherlock for further instruction. Now they knew what the three of them had in common, they needed to find Soo Lin and still needed to know how someone had managed to break into Van Coon's office. Sherlock pulled another biscuit from his pocket. John probably should have been more adverse to this than he was. Sherlock could just ask him, but on the other hand; he really liked biscuits.

"Spray paint. Badisso."

This was not as straightforward as before. Unlike with Lukis and the cabbie, there was no direct pathway from one spray painted section to the other. Instead, John had to run off in a hit and miss direction, pointing his nose in whatever direction he could find and run. This, unfortunately, meant a longer search for them than usual. John had to bring himself to a halt multiple times and sniff out the vicinity before putting himself back on the right direction. By the time he found his way to the train tracks, it was dark. John's night vision wasn't excellent, but fortunately Sherlock had brought a flashlight. How deep were his pockets exactly?

It was easier once John maneuvered himself around the fence. There was a lot of it and the smell of spray paint hung thick in the air. He sniffed along each building and over the train tracks. Rather than give him a direct line to the area, the scent wafted off in every direction leading to a game of 'hot, hotter, cold, warm'. Finally, John's nose brought them straight to the source; a large brick wall full of yellow symbols.

"Brilliant," Sherlock breathed with an over excited smile. John wasn't sure what any of it meant, especially since they had only just discovered they were numbers, but he guessed this was good news. Sherlock handed him his reward, which John happily munched on as he prodded around the surrounding area. He located a paint can with various scents on it, but they were all too mingled with the smell of neutralizers, cover-ups, and spray paint for him to put any use to them.

"Let's go, John," Sherlock announced. John padded along side him gladly. He was tired and hungry and furthermore, filthy. He needed a shower and a decent meal. He knew he'd sleep well tonight, at least. Unfortunately, by the time they got back, John was too tired to eat or bathe, and instead nuzzled himself on the couch and promptly passed out. It was only a few minutes after, however, that he felt a pair of fingers prod his lips and realised that someone was trying to drug him. He was awake in an instant, teeth snapped around the fingers and a growl prominent in his throat.

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock hovering over him, his slim fingers caught in John's powerful maw but showing no pain. John knew he had to be in some pain. He released slowly, allowing Sherlock to retreat and John carefully spit out whatever had been placed in his mouth. It was his medication. He'd forgotten about it. Sherlock had run him ragged today. He glanced apologetic beige eyes back up to Sherlock, quickly noting that his other hand was holding John's box.

"Sorry," he murmured the gentle apology, pulling himself up to lick at Sherlock's wounded hand. At once, Sherlock yanked away, rubbing the saliva off on the back of his trousers before examining his digits properly. The skin was bruised but no broken, so it was easily forgiven. Like the day before, Sherlock helped him with each of the needles, saving John the trouble of having to stab at himself awkwardly. When he was done, John nuzzled his box against his chest where it was safe and quietly went back to sleep, the quick shock of activity not enough to keep him awake much more than that.

Sherlock went back to work. He was a nice healthy. No. He was a nice man.

John was awoken by the sun the next morning. He stretched himself out lazily and peered around the flat to find Sherlock. He was still working it seemed. John wasn't sure when he slept and was getting quite worried that he didn't. He made tea, for both of them like usual, and toast and jam, also for both of them, for breakfast before taking off to shower. The couch, unfortunately, was not as comfortable as his bed. He made a reminder to himself to get to his bed as often as possible. Once he was cleaned and groomed again, only using his tongue to clean his face because, as he found out the hard way, soap was disgusting, he returned to Sherlock's side.

"Any progress?" he asked curiously. Sherlock hadn't eaten the toast, but he had at least had some tea.

"Yes," Sherlock informed him at once. John waited for more, but there was none.

"Are you going to share?" he prodded back with little hope.

"I'm going back to the museum," was instead the answer. John had to assume that meant without him.

"Alright. Are your- fingers okay?" John questioned softly. Surely Sherlock wasn't mad at him for that, was he? Sherlock glanced over his fingers, slightly bruised from pressure applied, but John's teeth were sharp enough to puncture skin so easily without the proper incentive.

"They're fine. I'll be back in a few hours," Sherlock assured him. John didn't entirely believe him, but he didn't have much choice, did he? He glanced toward the clock mildly, the action of itself quickly reminding him that;

"My interview!" John whined. Sherlock left the flat and John, making sure his tags were around his neck and his clothes were decent, followed him immediately. They took different paths, though, Sherlock off to hail a cab and John making his way on foot to the clinic. He was just glad he had awoken on time. Only having to take a mild jog, he arrived perfectly on time and didn't look any for the worse. Sarah greeted him pleasantly.

"Hello again, John," she smiled.

"Hello, Sarah," he answered with a small bow not of the military but of respect.

"You're just on time," Sarah noted happily. John felt ashamed of himself for having forgotten in the first place, though. He would have to be more careful with Sherlock from now on. Sarah headed into her office and John followed her. He seated himself in the chair she motioned to and slipped his tail between the gap. The room was quiet as she flipped through his resume, courtesy of the shelter, explaining his training and the jobs he was capable of, along with a few other bits of warning and general information on his breed.

"This is impressive," she finally spoke. "Anything else I should know?"

"I can play the clarinet," John added, mainly as a joke. He could still play, but it wasn't important. She offered him a small chuckle. That was good. She liked him.

"It's probably going to be boring around here for you," Sarah told him. John only had to think back a short time. There was a lot of activity focused around Sherlock it seemed.

"Sometimes boring is good," John assure her.

"Well then," she smiled at him. That wasn't an answer and he waited expectantly, if not a little oblivious. "You have the job," she assured him. At once, John's tail went to work. That was great! This job was great. Everything was great. He was great. "You can start this weekend."

"Great," John let out a small sigh of relief. This was more than he could ask for. He had his own job and soon his own income. He wasn't sure when he had gotten to lucky but it was amazing.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" she asked as if the answer would have changed now that he had the job.

"Of course," John assured her. He wouldn't miss it for anything. It wasn't until then that he realised he had no idea where they were going and that was probably something he needed to figure out before tomorrow. He thought about it the entire nice walk home. He returned to the flat, hardly even an hour later, to discover that it was filled with books. Lots and lots of books. He suddenly knew what a library smelled like. Dimmock made a not so chalant step in the opposite direction as soon as he saw John. Clearly his little outburst had spread quickly. He wasn't in the pound yet, though, so John wouldn't regret it yet.

"Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock answered. "Give me a hand."

"Did you find something?" John asked, watching Dimmock take his leave without a word to the dog. It was best if they didn't speak to each other.

"A hunch," Sherlock assured him, beginning to pull books out.

"A hunch?" John repeated. Sherlock handed him a mask.

"All these numbers come in pairs. My guess; the page number and word number."

"This is a lot of books for a hunch. What's the mask for?" This was probably going to take all night. John was concerned. It looked like he wasn't going to get a good night's sleep tonight, either. He pulled the mask over his face, noting that Sherlock wasn't wearing one.

"I'll be more sure after tonight," Sherlock promised him. John knew he definitely wasn't going to be getting any sleep tonight now. "Some of the books are from Lukis." John pulled a resigned face. He'd never get Lukis' scent out of the flat, either, bloody hell.

"What am I looking for exactly?" John asked, already beginning to file through some of the books himself.

"Lukis and Van Coon had to have used the same books for the code," Sherlock explained him as if it were obvious. It probably should have been. Most of the day was spent riffling through the dozens and dozens of books, most of them from Lukis' flat and not wanting to be touched by John in the least. It was only when the sun set did Sherlock finally pull on his coat and John hurriedly followed in out of the overwhelming flat. He would need to have a serious talk with Sherlock later about scenting and how it was not okay to bring such items into the flat and in no way was it okay to bring a _collection_ of them into the flat.

Once again, they returned to the museum. John was a little confused, mostly since it was closed, but clearly Sherlock wasn't against breaking into museums, either. Then John caught that scent again. It was such a specific scent that he immediately rushed past Sherlock to follow it. There was an Infected in the museum! John saw her only seconds before she saw him and at once, she dashed for an exit. John was on her tail, quite literally, instantly. She tried to escape into the wall, but John managed to catch a mouthful of her skin, yanking her back viciously and starting a fight of teeth and claws. John hated cats for this very reason. Not because they were cats but because cats had claws!

"John stop!" Sherlock commanded and John stiffened at once and she slipped out of his grip. He'd sustained more injuries than he had given. She had an excess of extra skin that, while standing, appeared perfectly normal but it was all John could get his mouth around while fighting. It helped that he wasn't actually interested in causing her any harm. "Soo Lin?" Sherlock asked carefully. The feline scrambled away mildly, warily watching them in the dark.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her fur bristled but the growl in her mouth died.

"We're not going to hurt you," Sherlock promised. John shook himself out. He disagreed with that, but clearly Sherlock knew something she didn't. She smelled of the cover up, it only made sense that she had used it. "You know what these symbols mean, don't you?"

Soo Lin glanced toward John cautiously before making an averting movement to approach Sherlock without having to come near John. She kept a safe distance from both of them, examining the image she was shown before bringing solid gold eyes back to meet Sherlock.

"You were not sent here to kill me?" she asked suspiciously.

"No," Sherlock answered without hesitation. Soo Lin watched him for a moment before taking the paper from him and returning to her tea pot. John picked himself up, making sure to keep to Sherlock's opposite side as to not have to come in direct with the other. John would have to ask later how Sherlock knew she would be here.

"Why did you come here?" she insisted, looking over the page.

"Because you're in danger and we can help, if you can tell us what these mean," Sherlock stated calmly. John hoped he knew what he was doing. She didn't have any military training, but she was clearly more than capable of fending and fighting for herself. John did not want to injure anyone he didn't have to, as was shown since she was not maimed in any way.

"Where did you find these?" Soo Lin murmured, having already calmed herself slightly. Her fur settled down at least. She had an awful lot of it.

"By the train tracks." Both she and John stopped too suddenly, ears alert to a noise Sherlock couldn't hear. Quickly, Soo Lin went back to work. Sherlock met eyes with John, instructing him without a word to stay with Soo Lin. John didn't like this. He didn't like it, at all. Sherlock couldn't take on an Infected by himself. Knowing him, he would sure as hell try.

"My brother is coming," Soo Lin said once Sherlock was gone, turning to John in their shared tongue. John watched her sharply.

"Your brother?" he answered. She lifted her foot carefully, removing the bandages that bound her heel and lightened her stepping, revealing a small mark on the sole of her foot. John had seen it before.

"They don't let you leave," she said sadly. John swallowed. That sounded familiar. Though not entirely. Her Latin was broken. She wasn't military at all, but a very well made fake. "The Black Lotus, they are looking for what has been stolen from them and they will not stop until they find it."

"What is it?" John insisted immediately. A sharp noise brought both their attention, but only for a moment.

"You have to go," she demanded. As John was going to refuse, he heard a loud bang and what could only be Sherlock's voice. He didn't think twice, immediately dashing off to assist his friend. He couldn't smell anything, their attacker's natural scent masked much to John's discontent.

"Sherlock?" he cried, dashing out to locate the man. Fortunately, he was uninjured. There was going to be a lot of commotion about the broken exhibit, unfortunately. However, by the burs in Sherlock's coat, this was not a fight he wanted to fight. It looked like a tarantula and a very high typed one, too.

"Where's Soo Lin?" Sherlock demanded, out of breath. John turned back the way he came at once. Even Sherlock could hear the lone gunshot. They both hurried back into the room but it was far too late for either of them to do anything. John spotted the man, supposedly Soo Lin's brother, escaping through a high window, his body easily clung to the wall. He should have known. They could have saved her. Sherlock gathered his papers up swiftly.

"Let's go John."


	6. Blind Mutt and the Bird Eating Spider

Bring Me Back A Dog

"_The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog._" -George Graham

Chapter Two: The Blind Mutt

Part Five: Bird Eating Spider

John knew he was supposed to be helping Sherlock go through the books, but he couldn't focus on that, mainly because half of the books smelled heavily like Lukis and despite the man being dead his scent still lingered. The mask honestly didn't help at all, only keeping out some of the scent and trapping the rest of it around his nose. John put up with it though, capable of standing it simply because of the breaks he took sitting outside on the step. There was another reason he couldn't focus, however.

There was something about the Infected that had attacked them that bothered John. From the distance that John had seen him, he appeared mostly normal. He hadn't had any extra limbs and he hadn't shown any signs of being unusually proportioned as certain insect breeds tended to show, but he was still fully capable of climbing a flat wall and throwing his burs. That would suggest he was type S, despite how rare those really were, but at the same time, something told John that wasn't it.

His burs weren't poisonous. In fact, they barely managed to pierce Sherlock's coat, so John doubted that would have managed to pierce skin. As rare as type S's were, it was even rarer for one to not have all of the benefits such as poison. Soo Lin, which if John understood correctly, was supposedly his sister. She had easily been a type eight. Soo Lin had the extra skin of a feline that just barely rested over her flesh without ripples, a coat just slightly thicker than John's, and claws. John really wished he would have been able to smell the spider because all of this was leading to the idea that it had been given extensive surgeries and that was incredibly disconcerting. Even if he had only been a type five, such surgeries would be life threatening for an Infected. For a type S, death would have been imminent.

If they were willing to do that, who knew what else they were willing to do.

Despite not being able to have a proper conversation with Soo Lin, Sherlock seemed to have gotten what he needed to back up his hunch. John wasn't sure what that was, or even if it existed, but Sherlock was very confident which was enough for the dog to go along with him. As the night drew on and Sherlock continued to flip through pages and pages of books, John eventually drifted off to sleep. The floor was more comfortable than the couch at least. Sometimes during the night, John heard the man say somthing about vases and auctions, but he was too far gone to pay his flatmate any mind.

Come morning, the flat was still filled with books and Sherlock was still awake. John was more concerned than ever of Sherlock's sleeping schedule. The golden retriever rolled onto his back lazily and pulled the mask down from over his nose and mouth. The flat also still smelled like Lukis, but much to John's misfortune, he was getting use to it by now. It was gross and unsanitary and John would spend weeks getting it out of the flat and off of Sherlock, but he could bare it for now simply because it was important to Sherlock and his case.

"Did you find anything?" he yawned, exposing all of his teeth in a non threatening gesture. Sherlock threw himself back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping sleek fingers against his upper arm. He didn't answer immediately, pale blue eyes watching John distantly as the dog groomed the area around his mouth where the mask had rested with the back of his hand and his tongue.

"Yes," Sherlock finally answered. "Lukis and Van Coon's last drop off was a pair of vases."

"And you found that out by cracking the code?" John asked. He was sure he wouldn't have known if Sherlock had made any progress, though. Likely by being awaken violently and suddenly in a burst of excitement.

"No," Sherlock scoffed, clearly displeased with the answer he was forced to give.

"Did you crack the code?" John insisted with a grimace of his own. Sherlock looked away, peering out the window like a punished child.

"We need to go back to the museum," came the reply instead of a proper answer. John politely shook his head.

"I have a date tonight," he reminded Sherlock. Sherlock stopped, turning back to the dog instantly to offer him an unhappy, but yet still somehow impartial, expression.

"A what?" Sherlock murmured, punctuated with a sharp scoff. John pushed himself up to sit on the floor. He straightened out his shirt and patted down his ears absently; a quick sweep of his tail assuring him that he still had it.

"A date?" John repeated. "Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

"That's what I was suggesting," Sherlock returned blandly. John stared at him with curious beige eyes. He wasn't sure who was misunderstanding here. Sherlock, surely.

"No. I hope not," the dog barked, rising to his feet. Sherlock gave him a strange sort of look as he left for the shower. As much as John wanted to help Sherlock finish the case, he was more excited for his date. His date would take an hour at the most he was sure. They were only going to the cinema, after all. He hadn't been to a cinema in ages. It would be fun. Sherlock could wait a measly hour.

John took extra special care to comb all the knots out of his fur and make it nice and shiny for his date. Though he was positive healthys did not want to date anything that reminded them of animals, let alone an Infected, that didn't mean he couldn't at least try to look appealing. An afterthought lead him to believe that he really only made himself look more like a pet than a date. There was nothing he could do about that, though, unless he wanted to shave his fur off and he was not doing that. There was nothing wrong with his fur. Besides, Sarah wouldn't have asked him out if she had a problem with how he looked. He spent just as much time scrubbing his teeth until they were just as shiny.

Perhaps, John wondered absently, he could do something about his teeth though. He could get them filed down a little or maybe even a few of them removed. There had always been too many to fit properly in his mouth, anyways. It wasn't problematic in the least, but it lead to some awkward moments with the healthy. He couldn't smile without looking intimidating and he'd have to be careful when eating. Fortunately, John had always been a careful eater. Just because he was smaller than most did not mean other Infected could steal food from him. It was nice to know that he didn't have to worry about that anymore.

In the end, John decided not to do anything. He was an Infected, as he had been for basically all of his life, and there was simply no changing that. He dressed nicely, which hopefully wasn't too nice. He would ask Sherlock, but that seemed like a horrible idea. Sherlock knew about other healthys almost as much as John did. Perhaps that's what Sherlock didn't mind him no much. Regardless, he thought he looked quite nice and hopefully Sarah would agree.

John patted his dogtag against his chest as he trotted back down the stairs. The cinema wouldn't require he wear shoes, right? He was an Infected, it was probably fine. He didn't want it to turn out to be a problem and he certainly didn't want to take any chances. As he sat down to wrap up his not quite feet, Sherlock's icy blues stared at him. It was truly unnerving.

"Do you have something to say to me?" John insisted, ears lowered just slightly. Sherlock didn't answer immediately and John wondered if in fact he was staring and not just zoned out.

"Where are you taking your date?" he finally asked. John was hesitant to answer. Sherlock obviously didn't care anything about his date. However, he was obligated, mostly legally, to answer. Sherlock was still his owner, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it.

"The cinema," John answered simply. Sherlock scoffed and the dog immediately felt a tad insulted. What did Sherlock care anyways? The cinema was a perfectly fine and reasonable date place. Probably.

"Here-" Sherlock handed him a scrap of paper clearly pulled off a post of some kind. John read over it curiously. It was a flier for a circus. "I have tickets. You should take your date." That seemed like a really bad idea, actually. It seemed like a vast majority of circuses operated with their main events being very Infected oriented.

"Don't worry," Sherlock assured him in that eerie way as though he knew what John was thinking. "Any Infected there are there of their own free will." It wasn't entirely clear if Sherlock knew what that meant, especially considering 'own free will' was very different from 'either this or euthanization'. He trusted Sherlock not to completely sabotage his date, on purpose at least. It could prove to be a very nice night. John would later look back on this moment and shame himself for not wondering why Sherlock had tickets in the first place.

"Oh. Thank you, Sherlock," John woofed with a small smile. It was nice of Sherlock to help him out. John left a bit early, wanting to rid himself of Lukis' scent before meeting with Sarah. He knew she couldn't smell it, but he could and it was distracting and still painfully awfully. He could only hope that Sherlock wasn't going to make this a normal thing. Surely by now Sherlock understood how awful it was for him. By the time he showed up to meet Sarah, he was confident that most of the scent was gone.

Sarah smiled at him fondly as he approached and John naturally wagged his blond mop of a tail. Again he reminded himself that Sarah clearly didn't care that he was a good part dog and thus certainly shouldn't care if he acted it. To be fair, his tail wasn't entirely something he controlled. He greeted her with a mild bow of sorts, though this was one of affection and not obligation.

"Good afternoon, Sarah," he commented, hiding his excited whine in his throat. "You look brilliant." Finally, all those excessive medications were wearing off. John was more relieved than he was letting on, too. Sarah was attractive and he wanted to feel attracted to her and he did. Good heavens he did.

"Hello John," Sarah returned with her slim lips tugged into a smile. She fixed the collar of her shirt slightly, simply primping herself fondly. John's tail went to work again. Perhaps he wasn't all that knowing of healthys, but he could certainly read the tell tail signs of friendliness. She was a nice healthy. "Thank you. What's the plan for tonight, then?"

"The circus?" John offered up with an air of caution.

"Sounds lovely," she assured him. She wasn't an activist, after all, just a person who knew when someone was being mistreated. That was all John wanted and by no means did he expect her to be concerned for things that didn't concern her. The circus was fun and hopefully that was all it was. They started off towards the building side by side and fortunately, Sarah acted first. She wrapped her arm around John's and he pleasantly responded by taking her hand.

They spoke, but it was nothing memorable to be honest. That was how it should be, though. That was what John wanted. Just a normal date with a friendly person to a fun activity. Not to mention he had been fairly positive he would be inept at being social with a pretty lady. He was glad that wasn't the case. When they arrived, John was pleased to see that these were the type of people who didn't particularly care what he was. He couldn't smell any other Infected, but he couldn't smell much of anything in this building. The whole place seemed to be covered with neutralizers. It was suspicious, of course, but John firmly told himself that he was on a date and not with Sherlock right now.

"Two tickets under Sherlock Holmes, please," John noted calmly. As unfortunate as it was that John was technically Sherlock's pet, it also had its benefits. As it was, John could do many things in Sherlock's name. A pair of circus tickets certainly wasn't anything major, but it was a point. Pets could use their owner's identities to the point of fault with no negative repercussions. Legally, anyways. It was a fairly new thing supposedly to give pets some sort of benefit. There were still a few problems with it, and yes, some pets did use it to their advantage to both escape and break their owner's bank, but generally it was a good thing for both parties. John was all too glad to be able to read the newspapers again. It provided quite the insight to the changes that had occurred since he was a teen.

"It says here there are three," the man behind the counter insisted. Three? Three tickets? Oh no. As if those were the magic words, Sherlock appeared behind them. John could smell him, though admittedly not very well. The cleanliness of this place was throwing his nose off.

"You must be Sarah," Sherlock noted with that false affection that wasn't very Sherlock like at all. Sarah smiled unsurely at him, giving John a sideways glance. John didn't want to do this. He didn't want to do this at all.

"Sarah, this is-" Why was he even here? This was sabotage. "Sherlock, my owner."

"Flatmate," Sherlock corrected, taking her hand in a friendly fashion. John wanted to growl, specifically at Sherlock. Why would he do this? Was Sherlock honestly so bad that he was truly upset about John not being able to help him tonight?

"Oh," Sarah answered calmly. "Well it's nice to meet you."

"Why don't you wait inside, Sarah?" John suggested quickly. "I need to have a word with Sherlock for a moment." She smiled, though not as pleased as she had before, and left them be. Immediately, John turned on his 'flatmate'.

"What are you doing here?" he yipped loudly, then quickly brought his voice down. "Sherlock-"

"Do you smell that?" Sherlock asked calmly. John instinctually took a sniff from the air, though there was no more scent now than there had been a few moments ago.

"Sherlock," John repeated a bit firmer.

"Green Leaf Volatiles," answered Sherlock. Those words put together meant absolutely nothing to John.

"And, uh, what is that exactly?"

"It's what causes the smell of freshly cut grass. As it turns out, to the human nose, it's also what neutralizers smell like. The very faint scent of it, anyways," Sherlock explained as if he had just made a huge accomplishment. John could have told him that! He waited patiently for Sherlock to give him a _good_ reason as to why he was here. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately for John, he did. "This is a smuggling ring for the Tongs. They're leaving tomorrow and by my guess, with the murderer. We need to have a look before they're gone." We?

"Sherlock," John snipped. "You're not ruining my date. I'm sure whatever it is you're going on about can wait." Without another word, John hurried off to return to his date's side. As important as Sherlock's case was, this was his first date in nearly twenty years. Sherlock solved multiple cases a week.

Sarah smiled at him and John returned it, being far more carefully than usual to keep his teeth in his lips. She took up his arm again and Sherlock came to stand behind them. He didn't say anything fortunately. Hopefully he would stay that way. He woudn't. As the show began, Sherlock just had to interject with his little bits of knowledge. Clearly Sarah needed a fully laid out explanation of the act. John wanted to bark at him until he went away.

"The common household feline," Sherlock explained as if he were suddenly an expert on the Infected. "Relatively low level-"

"Type," John corrected swiftly, unable to stop himself.

"High enough to make him malleable enough to escape with ease. Hardly a trick," he murmured simply. Despite his explanation it was no less exciting when the man managed to break free just moments in time not to be bloodily murdered in front of a dozen people. Then Sherlock left. John wasn't sure where he was off to or why, but he was momentarily relieved.

"And now we present, the Goliath bird eating spider!" the woman announced and a masked man dropped from the ceiling on his silk ropes. John stiffened. Why did that sound familiar? It shouldn't. John wished desperately that his sense of smell worked in here. Again he had to remind himself that he was on a date and not helping Sherlock right now. He was just a performer, that was all. A performer that was very well covered and very flexible. John had to wonder if it was a healthy under all that clothing. Sarah was enjoying herself at least.

Out of nowhere, Sherlock bursted onto their little make shift stage and after him a man with a sword. The other parton's fled at once and John was immediately at Sherlock's aid. His instincts kicked in at once.

Disarm threat. Unfortunately, the man in his thick mask made it nearly impossible to get a good grip around his throat. John bared his teeth and without taking in the risk, threw himself at the other Infected. The man hissed loudly and John latched his mouthful of teeth on the feline's sword bearing arm and bit down with every bit of force he had. He was rewarded with a faceful of claw, but it didn't loosen his bite at all. He wasn't going to let go until he put the sword down and the man wasn't all intent on doing that. John growled loudly as if it would help, but the feline only clawed him more.

Then Sarah hit the man over the head with a broken bit of stage. That was also acceptable he supposed. The hit was enough to knock the man unconscious and send him sprawling to the floor. John deemed it acceptable to release him, kicking his sword away at once and then making sure Sherlock was alright. He hadn't been injured at all. Again. However that was possible.

"Sarah?" John asked soon after, covering his mouth with the crook of one arm and touching her shoulder with the other. She nodded at him calmly, assuring him she was alright. He tried to wipe the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, but it only did so much good.

"Look," Sherlock spoke suddenly, kneeling on the floor at the feline's feet. John couldn't help but notice that the Infected had no visible signs of his status. No tail, no ears, no colour. He was a low type, yes, but even then it was incredibly bizarre. Sherlock was motioning to something else, however, a tattoo on the bottom of the Infected's foot. "Black Lotus."

"Are dates with him always like this?" Sarah asked in a whisper.

"I hope not," John sighed. So much for his date. The night was still young. Perhaps he could mend it yet, he hoped fruitlessly. Ducking under the police, as Sherlock was so fond of doing, the three of them returned to Sherlock's flat. It didn't seem like much of a date, did it? John wasn't sure what he expected. The place was a mess, as it usually was, and John attempted to do some cleaning though it turned out to be nothing more than rearranging.

"Please," John motioned to the flat mildly, telling her without words to make herself at home. He took her coat, hanging it up before making for the kitchen. He rinsed his mouth out at the kitchen sink, trying to get the blood off of his teeth as best he could. This was definitely not how he had wanted the evening to go at all. She was still here for some reason though? John wasn't entirely sure why that was, either, but he was glad for it. There was clearly more to her than he thought.

Though he could have sworn he'd just gone shopping, he couldn't find any reasonably edible food in the kitchen. This was also Sherlock's fault he was sure. He should have just gone to the cinema.

"How about takeout?" he called to Sarah casually. She distantly agreed and John hurriedly placed an order at the nearest place that delivered. Still time to make this a half decent date. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tray of freshly baked goods and drinks. John wagged his tail excitedly, nuzzling her face in a friendly fashion.

"Oh thank you Mrs. Hudson, you're brilliant. A life saver," he pleaded thankfully.

"It's nothing, dear," she chuckled at him and brushed a wrinkle out of his shirt before scurrying back to her flat. John rearranged the tray a little before carting it into the living room surprisingly void of a Sherlock. Bloody hell, where had he gone now? Surely he wanted to ruin John's date some more.

"Uh, where'd Sherlock go?" he asked. At least Sarah was still here. She glanced over her shoulder absently to where he'd been working when John left him.

"I'm not sure. He just kind of ran off," Sarah answered with a lopsided smile.

"Oh, well, that sounds like Sherlock." John knocked aside some items from the table and placed the tray down where they could get to from the couch. She joined him and they talked some more. This time, however, it was mainly about Sherlock's case which by no means did John actually want to talk about, but she was interested and he couldn't think of anything else to talk about. He tried to keep it to small details that he knew couldn't possible get her into any trouble with anyone which was none of them. It was clear even to Sarah that Sherlock was nothing but trouble for everyone around him.

John's ears pricked immediately at the sound of the door. He checked the clock. It had only been ten minutes since he placed the order, though he was happy he could break away from this conversation all the same. As he passed by Sarah, she brushed her hand over his tail. He snapped it to his body immediately and she giggled. John wouldn't hold it against her. He padded down the steps with his wallet to answer the door.

"That was quick," he commented offhandedly.

"Where is it?" the man responded at once. Immediately, John caught a whiff of him and it was not a good whiff. He smelled like gunpowder and death. John tried to slam the door closed, but the large man was through it all at onc, bargaining in with all of his size. "Where is it?" he demanded again, louder.

"Where is what?" John barked back, skittering several steps away. Before he could attack, or flee for that matter, the man sprayed him in the face with an aerosol can. Without thinking, John turned to take up the stairs, completely blind. He got up a grand total of three before falling unconscious hard and fast. He was going to be incredibly upset if he was blind after this. There was a reason they banned sedation sprays.

John wasn't sure how much time had passed before he regained consciousness. Generally sedation lasted about half an hour but who knew what these people did to the already horrible spray. His nose was impaired from the closeness of the spray, though he was sure he wouldn't have been able to smell anything anyways. He was sitting on his tail and very clearly tied down to a chair. He could hear at least. There were several people in the cold room and a few seconds later he heard Sarah groan. Oh Sarah. Worst date ever.

"I know you're awake, Doctor Watson," a woman spoke to him. John slowly peeled his eyes open, glad that he could, in fact, still see. Three men, a woman, Sarah tied to another chair, and he in a similar position. "Tell me where it is, Doctor Watson and we'll let you and your little friend go." John didn't respond. This was officially a dangerous and hostage situation. He would be offering them nothing he didn't have to.

Define the situation: he and an innocent healthy had been kidnapped by a three Infected and a healthy of all were known criminals. Diagnose problem: a healthy was in danger, death was imminent, and he was tightly bound to a chair. Conclusion: preserve innocent healthy's life, incapacitate threats.

"Where is the jade pin?" she demanded a touch louder. Of course John knew what she was talking about. It seemed obvious now. They wanted the pin Van Coon's assistant was wearing. Obviously she had no idea what it was worth or that it would lead to this. John wasn't going to tell them that considering they'd likely kill them as soon as he did. He really hoped Sherlock was getting back up right now. First he needed to get out of his binds which he could only do if they weren't staring at him so intently. He needed a distraction.

"I know you know where it is," the woman growled at him. John flickered his ears up, continuing for several more moments to stare at her blandly with sharp beige eyes.

"I understand the surgeries, and the sneaking Infected in and out, but why the smuggling?" he asked with a seeping curiosity. She smiled at him, but didn't reply. John was positive he was going to find out soon anyways, not that he was _that_ curious. She turned away and motioned for her two thugs to fetch a large, sheet covered item. That was more than enough. As soon as her back was on him, John hoisted himself onto his feet, lifting the chair under him, and threw his entire weight back in one heavy heave. It snapped apart under his force easily. Still four against one and he had all of their attention again.

John tried his best intimidating growl, but the only thing he got in response was a return growl from one of the Infected and a gun pointed on him. Oh great. There were guns in play. He was really getting sick of guns. He side stepped swiftly to stand in front of Sarah, shaking off the broken pieces of wood that were still stuck to him via the still tied ropes. It wasn't so much a question of if she would shoot him, but rather if it would be fatal. She had a single shot before John would be on her and he would not hesitate to snap her neck.

For a woman who supposedly trained Infected, she wasn't very good at it herself. To John's luck, Sherlock came to his rescue. He managed to surprise one of the Infected. John suspected that they likely had permanent damage done to their nasal passages from extensive time spent around neutralizers. The woman turned away from him again and John quickly took to untying Sarah. If possible, he always had to tend to healthys first.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Sherlock called when the woman pointed her gun down the shadowed hall. "It might ricochet. Who knows who you'll hit."

"Stay close to me," John insisted immediately, using his teeth to make quick work of Sarah's binds. Not quick enough unfortunately, and before he could completely free her, a silk cord was yanked around his throat. He jerked about frantically, trying to break free or at least injure his attacker. Unable to do that, John grabbed a hold of the bit around his throat, trying to break it free from his neck enough to breath. With another puff of air in his lungs, he turned his attention to grab a hold of the man's wrist tightly with each hand, jerking himself and his attacker to the side and bringing them both to the ground with a heavy thud.

Free from the cord, John immediately launched himself at the man, taking no hesitation in taking a hold of whatever he could get to with his teeth. His first snap had no purchase, but raked John's teeth across the spider's face with full force and taking a good chunk of flesh with him. The next was far more successful, snaring on his throat and crushing down. It was instinct. Get them before they get you.

John wasted no time, returning to Sarah's side at once to undo the rest of her ties before taking off to help Sherlock deal with the dog. He had no doubt the Infected would try to kill Sherlock given the chance and John was just glad he hadn't so far. In fact, it looked like Sherlock was so far completely unharmed. John launched himself at the other dog at once, ensuring a fight of clashing teeth and grappling. Though the Infected seemed to have every 'infected' part of him removed, he certainly still had a mouthful of teeth. For that reason, they both had to fight exceptionally hard to keep their faces away from each other, John got several bites taken out of him before Sherlock offered any help.

Sherlock managed to find something to knock the opposing dog unconscious with. Unfortunately, that wasn't good enough for 'army' John. _Get them before they get you_. Before he could sink his teeth into the Infected's neck, however, Sherlock grabbed him around the collar. That was the wrong thing to do. John snapped at Sherlock's hand in an instant, growling aggressively with a serious threat on his tongue. As it was, Sherlock wasn't going to have any of that.

"John!" he snapped loudly. "Nocens! Nocens!" he demanded, pointing an angry finger at the blond dog and making him reel back. John showed his teeth submissively.

"Mors nulla," Sherlock growled right back. John pressed his ears down, slowly backing away from the unconscious body and rolling his head down. Once he was away, Sherlock lowered his finger and scoffed mild praise. "Bonum. You don't need anymore blood on your- maw, John."

John rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, uneasily wiping away the blood. That was disgusting. As it was, no amount of medication could entirely stop John from doing exactly what he was beaten and trained into doing. They could stop him from being aggressive when there was no stimulant, even the slightest bit of adrenaline cut through that, and they could even slow his reactions in the hopes that he would rethink his decision, but it never worked. Even as a doctor, John was made to kill and survive. As a captain, he was better at doing that than the average Infected, which these two had the misfortune of being.

He wasn't fit for this life.

They waited outside for Dimmock to show. The woman, General Shan Sherlock told him, had managed to get away in their brawl which was rather unfortunate. If anyone deserved to be lying face down, it was her. That poor boy had no idea what was going on. It was different when they weren't trained. Skilled maybe, but that clearly was no match for the amount of training John had gone through. He shouldn't feel guilty, the spider had killed three people that they knew of and likely more. There was no rehabilitation for Infected like that. John wondered if there was any rehabilitation for him.

"John," Sherlock murmured quietly. John glanced up to him slightly, still trying to rub the blood out of his mouth. "You won't be charged."

"I know, Sherlock," John answered with a soft sigh. They were Infected. No one cared if one of them died and no one cared if they killed each other. As long as all the healthys got away unscaved. Which Sherlock had somehow managed again. "That's really not the problem."

"You kind of ruined your date, though," he continued. John glanced toward Sarah who sat a little ways away from them. She was probably in shock.

"Yeah," John sighed. "I'm sorry for trying to bite you before."

"It's not your fault," Sherlock assured him. "Adrenaline does terrible things to your kind." John could only nod in agreement. "They were looking for a pin," he continued.

"I know. Van Coon's assistant was wearing it. Now that I think about it, it was stupid of me to think that it was just something 'a rich healthy did'," John lowered his face into the crook of his arm heavily. His ears lay flat against his head and his tail limp on the ground behind him. Sherlock stroked him between the ears softly. Usually he was pretty good about not petting Jon, but they could both make an exception this time. John needed a nice pet right now. "You cracked the code at least. What was it?"

"London A to Z," Sherlock agreed. "General Shan is still out there, though. All she has to do is pick up another book." Living with Sherlock was obviously going to be far more of an ordeal that John had ever thought. Surely it couldn't all be bad though, right?

"I should go talk to Sarah," John sighed. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing his bottom off lightly. "I don't have anymore blood in my teeth, do I?" He bared he two rows at Sherlock who would never be afraid of them.

"Quite a bit, actually."

"At least this date couldn't possibly get any worse."

* * *

*Nocens: meaning 'bad' or 'wicked'. This is about a step above 'non' meaning 'no' which would simply be used as a correctional term. Nocens is more scolding along the lines of 'shame on you'.

Mors nulla: meaning 'no death'. A more casual term used between Infected rather than a command. It's more to say 'please no more' or 'there's been enough'.

Bonum: meaning 'good'. A friendly praise.


End file.
